Sledge Hammer! - The Mourning After
by ghost-writer-in-d-skyz
Summary: What happened when everyone woke up the morning after Hammer's notorious proposal to Doreau? Follow Detective Dori Doreau, Captain Edmond Trunk, and Inspector Sledge Hammer as they as they solve murder, robbery, arson, break up an major organized crime ring, and prove that conspiracy isn't always a theory, while make sense of the night before.
1. Chapter 1  Captain Edmond F Trunk

Captain Edmond F. Trunk stepped from the elevator and into the familiar environs of the precinct office. _It was a beautiful morning_; he told himself, glancing at his watch and confirming he was early this morning, almost 30 minutes early in fact. That fact was enough to add a bit of spring to his step and a smile to his face.

_Early enough_, he reflected as he stepped lightly down the hallway, _to assure myself of one hour – sixty full, delicious, minutes – when __nothing__ would go wrong._ Captain Trunk started to whistle happily, out loud, and then cut the sound off abruptly. _There was no point in tempting fate,_ he decided.

Captain Trunk was an optimist – at least in the sense that he was certain things had to get better. _When you already had the most adolescent, boneheaded, trigger happy, misogynistic Inspector in the department reporting to you, then things had to get better – right? _Yet, somehow, it never seemed to work that way. Ever since fate had served him a lifetime supply of lemons, in the person of Inspector Sledge Hammer, Captain Trunk had done his best to make lemonade. As well as lemon custard, lemon meringue pie, lemon Danish, and lemon marmalade. He'd made candied lemon peel and garnished more than one alcoholic and non-alcoholic beverage. He was running out of recipes and still the lemons kept coming. Every day spent in the presence of Inspector Hammer seemed to reinvent disaster in a particularly spectacular fashion. The opportunity to spend sixty minutes in quiet meditation in his office was little solace for the coming hours, but he would take them. He found himself looking forward to those minutes; he needed them; he cherished them. As he turned the corner from the hallway into the bullpen area, his spirits were high with anticipation.

"Btfsplk!" He swore under his breath.

Of all Hammer's character traits, the only one that Trunk found even faintly endearing was his tardiness. Each morning, as dependably as any Swiss made watch, the most enthusiastic officer on the force would stroll in at precisely 8:30 a.m. Captain Trunk had come to depend on it, the same way he depended on his alarm clock. In fact, he sometimes found himself wishing that Hammer had a "Snooze" button he could punch to defer his regular tardiness by a further 10 minutes. In fact, most days he just wanted to punch …

_But every rule has its exception … and Hammer was the exception to most rules._ Right here, right now, Hammer was once again exceeding expectations. Captain Trunk felt completely overwhelmed by the incongruous sight before him.

_Hammer? At his desk before 8:30?!_

_Hammer? Was that actually __paperwork__ spread across the desk in front of him!? _

_Hammer – sunken eyes and unshaven face looking like he'd spent the night on a park bench?_

Captain Trunk did what any other individual would have done in his place. He took a step in Hammer's direction. He inhaled, his mouth opened, and the word "HAMMER!" began to form on his lips. And then, at that precise instant, from the corner of his eye, Trunk caught sight of Detective Dori Doreau as she cast a quick, _almost furtive,_ glance toward Hammer. At least, it certainly appeared furtive to Captain Trunk. That instant stretched out like a magnitude 3.1 earthquake during an L.A. video session. Although shaken, he tried not to stir. In fact, he was frozen, completely unable to stir. For a full eight seconds an emotional rollercoaster tossed him violently, as he took in her rumpled dress; the tousled hair; the uncharacteristic lack of make-up. Trunk realized that, in her own way and even without the stubbly beard, Detective Doreau looked even worse than Hammer. Moreover, she seemed unaware that Trunk was openly staring at her, or that he was even present in the room.

Trunk's mouth snapped shut, his yell cut off before it could form. Then, he forced himself to first breathe and then move; to steady his steps try to maintain an _appearance_ of normalcy as he set his path towards his office. His jaw did not drop. He did not flinch. He did not stare. _Well, two out of three isn't bad,_ he thought, staring in the direction of Hammer and Doreau in spite of himself. It was not unusual for Inspector Doreau to be in at this time. It was not unusual for her to be hard at work analysing some case, or a recent set of crime statistics. It was unusual for her not to notice that another officer, in this case her _superior_ officer, had entered the room. It was unheard of for her to arrive at the precinct looking ruffled and unkempt. A deep foreboding filled Captain Trunk as it slowly dawned on him that Inspector Hammer might be the _least_ of his concerns this morning.

As he entered his office, Trunk supressed the urge to slam the door in frustration. Instead, he closed it with exaggerated care, barely making a click. After he had closed his door, he hung his jacket up neatly, closed his eyes and willed his mind to clear. He walked slowly, thoughtfully, to his desk, where he picked up the bottle of Pepto-Bismol, unscrewed the cap, and tipped it urgently up to his mouth.

_Empty! _

Scowling, he dropped it into his waste basket, turned to the cabinet behind the desk. Pulling a ring of keys from his pocket, he quickly selected one and jabbed in into the cabinet lock. It turned, as he knew it would. With a quick glance over his shoulder to confirm that his door was closed, he opened the cabinet, revealing that it was filled with neatly stacked rows of pink bottles.

_Good thing Costco had a sale last week_, he thought, as he chose one bottle and turned back to his desk.

He forced his hands to be steady as he unscrewed the cap and pressed the bottle to his now desperate lips. He tried to force himself to sip the contents, to swallow each mouthful slowly, deliberately; letting the contents wash over him in a soothing wave; but within the space of a few moments he found that he had drained the bottle entirely. Regretfully, he added that bottle to the one already in his trash and withdrew a second bottle, which he placed on his desk. Then, like an elaborate ritual, he closed the cabinet door, carefully locked it, and returned the key to his pocket. Involuntarily, his fingers found his temples and began massaging.

_It's coming_, he thought, _a migraine – I know it_. And so his pacing began.

Initially, he maintained an illusion of calm as he stepped off the distance from one side of his office to the other and back. Soon, though, the furious churning of his thoughts began to manifest itself in his movements as well. Soon, he was striding furiously from side to side across his office; the need to scream at the top of his lungs barely suppressed. He'd only seen Hammer unshaven twice before, and he had _neve_r known Hammer to arrive at the precinct early. The bulge Trunk was certain he had seen earlier beneath Hammer's garish sports jacket suggested that he had not lost his beloved magnum again.

_That left – what – poison?! Could __poison__ drive Hammer to __paperwork__? Who cared? Detective Doreau was clearly his main cause for concern._

Captain Trunk trusted Detective Doreau more than any other officer under his command. He placed his faith in her judgement at times when he questioned his own. More than he liked to admit, he _depended_ on her.

Every day she faced the same risks as her male peers, without complaint and certainly without asking for anything resembling special consideration. By any reasonable measure, she was their equal in every way … except one. No one else had a partner like hers.

No one knew better than Captain Trunk how great that risk was. Captain Trunk had, more than once, found himself collateral damage to Inspector Hammer's casual, no, _wilful_, disregard for department policies and procedures. One glance at the patch marks in his office ceiling provided a measure of some of the less destructive incidents in which Trunk had been an unwilling participant. He was certain that there remained a backlog of additional events that he had yet to discover.

Knowing this, no one marvelled more than Captain Trunk that somehow, each day, Detective Doreau, somehow, escaped unscathed. Well, relatively unscathed. There was that _one_ incident … and now, there was today.

Based on what he had seen this morning, Trunk felt his confidence slipping away. Behind his closed door and blinds, he felt safe from the prying attention of his staff and thankful that they would not be able to see his clear agitation. His agitation was clear, he was certain, to anyone who could see him. The tenuous equilibrium he had forged between Hammer and Doreau had clearly been disturbed. If he couldn't fix it, and soon, the disturbance would be felt throughout the entire Police force.

"Btfsplk!" He swore under his breath, for the second time.

Captain Trunk paced the way some people smoked, or chewed gum, or ate erasers off their pencils. Habitually. Instinctively. Over time the movements had become second nature. Usually that left his mind free to consider other problems. This morning it was taking all of the Captain's concentration and self-control just to maintain the measured rhythm of his steps. This morning, Captain Trunk felt driven, desperate, almost frantic, and that left him neither the time nor the energy to wrestle his thoughts into submission. This morning, Trunk felt surrounded by a dark cloud of foreboding as his thoughts swirled, uncontrolled, in his head. Slowly, inexorably, the black cloud thickened, tightened around him, cutting him off, smothering him, threatening to engulf him. Inexorably, it tightened its noose around him, chocking off any attempt to solve the problem before him, or even to seriously consider what the problem was. He needed to free his mind before the cloud swallowed him completely.

The Captain tried to force himself into some measure of calm. He strove, in vain, to force his steps to conform to a specific rhythm; a pace that he found relaxed his body and freed his mind. Ironically, it was a rhythm he had learned from Doreau, when it had proven impossible for him to copy the breathing techniques she used to maintain her calm. Back and forth; from one side of his office, across in front of his desk to the door on the other side, and back again. Each time he returned to his starting point, he glanced at the clock on his wall; timing himself; confirming that had the measured pace was exactly right.

Trunk sighed. Although the clock said he had it right, it still felt wrong, as though time was somehow speeding away from him. _Must be the gravity of the situation_, he thought wryly.

He forced himself to resume his studied pacing. Back and forth; always following exactly the same path; always at exactly the same measured pace. Usually so liberating, the effort required this morning turned the task into trudgery, he thought wryly.

Seven seconds to cross the room in seven measured steps. A moment to turn and then seven more to return to his starting point. Tick … tick … tick. The same regular motion as a pendulum.

_Although, _he calculated quickly,_ it would have to be a 40 foot long pendulum._

Trunk passed his hand over his eyes, combing his fingers through his hair, and shook his head.

_I __really__ need to cut back on the prime time television, _he told himself.

Ever so slowly, instinct began to assert itself. Gradually, his steps became more natural; his pace less forced. As his body began to relax, so did his mind, and he found he could now consider what he had seen earlier. At least, what he _thought_ he had seen. _Perhaps he had imagined it? That would actually be easier to believe._

He stopped pacing, and turned toward the window separating his office from the bullpen area. As he reached toward the blind, he hesitated. _I have to know_, he decided, pushing his fingers between the slats and gently prying them open so that he could peer through – _unnoticed_, he hoped!

His eyes slowly scanned the room outside. His first order of business was to assess the mood in the room. His eyes narrowed. Things were quiet … too quiet. Instead of the normal office camaraderie with officers milling about discussing cases or engaged in idle gossip, everyone was at their desks, heads down, as though deliberately presenting as small a target as possible. Those officers who found it absolutely necessary to leave their desks zigged and zagged randomly, making maximum use of the little cover afforded by office furniture. While the "What" and "Why" behind their actions might be obscure, Trunk was certain of the "Who" and "Where".

Trunk pondered that to himself. Hammer was unpredictable, everyone knew that. As someone who regularly shot up the precinct vending machine for not promptly dispensing his purchase, Hammer commanded a certain deference from his peers. As well as from the office machinery. Hammer had once arrested a pair of plain clothes officers, when they had strayed into his personal space, Trunk recalled. Something about his "gut instinct" telling him the two were drug dealers. _Well,_ Trunk remembered, _they were from narcotics division, following up on details of an apparent drug overdose death of one of their informants._

So, it was no surprise to see officers taking the long way around the office rather than chance Hammer's literally hair trigger "instincts". The vending machines were less mobile and had to take their chances.

Satisfied that he could learn nothing more from the rank and file outside, Trunk's eyes moved to area Hammer and Doreau shared. He forced himself to view the scene objectively, to analyse what he saw like a detective, and not like a snooping superior officer.

Instinctively, his eyes were drawn first to Inspector Sledge Hammer. He instantly made out the white grips on the butt of Hammer's infamous "Amigo" peeking from beneath the left lapel of his sports jacket, nestled as close to Hammer's heart as anything or anyone ever got. Whatever was wrong with Hammer had nothing to do with his Gun then. Hammer's unshaven countenance drew his eyes next. That, along with his tangled hair, spoke to Trunk of a long and probably sleepless night.

_Doing what?_ He wondered. _Paperwork?_

Usually, Hammer's desk was immaculate. Virginal, even. Hammer would pass time in the office impatiently, loading and unloading his Gun, spinning the cylinder, and practicing his draw. He would check the pins in his grenades and play with the oversized ammunition he kept on display. In all of this, his desk was largely inconsequential.

Today the desk in front of Hammer was strewn with what appeared to be case files, and Hammer absently turned a pencil over and over with his fingers. Trunk saw no sign that Hammer had been playing with his gun, or anything else, but he saw no sign that he was making any notations on the papers around him, either. In fact, Hammer appeared to be taking no notice at all of either the papers around him, or the pencil in his hand. Hammer's eyes had the glazed, unfocused look of a man completely lost in thought.

Involuntarily, Trunk's lips twitched in a half smile. _How far,_ he wondered, _would Hammer have to wander far into that unfamiliar realm to become thoroughly lost?_ His smile turned abruptly to a frown as he reflected on the dangers of underestimating anyone – much less Inspector Hammer. Even now, there was a burning intensity to Hammer's unfocused stare that left Trunk certain that bad things would happen when Hammer finished his contemplations.

Trunk shook his head, determined not to get lost in a reverie of Hammer's failings.

_There is only one person,_ Trunk reflected, _normally unfazed by Hammer's often unpredictable behaviour._

Reluctantly, he forced himself to consider the individual at the heart of his concerns – Dori Doreau. She seemed, as usually, consumed by her work. She was the polar opposite of her partner, Inspector Sledge Hammer. She was cautious, he was rash. She was meticulous, he was cavalier. She drew conclusions; he drew _on_ them. Trunk wasn't, he realized, even certain that Hammer's mind actually drew a conclusion before his hand drew that hunk of metal he referred to as his "Amigo", but "conclusion" was an apt description for what always followed.

He forced himself to study her systematically, dispassionately; cataloguing every detail that his eyes and mind observed. What he saw confirmed his earlier impression.

_Hammer is definitely the least of my problems this morning, _he realized.

Doreau, normally impeccable in her grooming, was looking positively rumpled this morning. Her clothes were actually wrinkled. Her hair looked like a tumbleweed had come to rest, lodged atop her head. Trunk had seen her angry, he'd seen her hurt, he'd seen her knocked senseless, but he'd _never_ seen her looking dishevelled before. Nothing in Captain Trunk's experience, not even Inspector Hammer, had ever affected her to that extent.

_What was different about today?_ He asked himself.

Unlike Hammer, whose attention appeared to be loosely focused on a point somewhere beyond the ceiling, Doreau's attention seemed firmly fixed on the papers spread before her.

_Too fixed?_ He wondered. _More intent on who she was __not__ looking at than the case notes she __pretended__ to be totally absorbed in?_

Then Trunk noticed her posture. Normally erect, today she slumped in her chair, her shoulders hunched and her neck rigid. Her left hand grasped a pencil about as delicately as a stonecutter held a chisel while carving an inscription on a granite headstone. All in all, her body language spoke of a tension usually found only in spring steel just before it snapped. Trunk shivered. _The headstone allusion was perhaps a little too apt,_ he thought, as he pondered who, or what, had put Doreau in this uncharacteristic frame of mind

Since her face was turned away, Trunk took the time to examine her clothing more closely. This time it was not the uncharacteristically wrinkled appearance that caught his attention, but something else. The style, the color, the more he thought about it the more certain he was that he had seen her in _exactly_ these clothes the previous day.

He closed his eyes, and mentally recreated an image of Doreau as he had last seen her. _Seated at the bar, with her back towards him as he was leaving, Doreau had been wearing an off-white dress, with some sort of pattern on it; the same dress that she had worn to the wedding and …_ He opened his eyes again, checking his memory against the present reality. _Yes, she was still wearing that same dress this morning_.

He closed his eyes again, recalling another detail that made him cringe. _Hammer had been there, too. The two of them had been sharing a drink when he had left! Hammer was wearing – his mind refused to go there – leaving him unable to confirm if Hammer's jacket matched what he had worn to the wedding. Besides, the implications of that were … unthinkable!_

Trunk's attention was drawn to a sudden movement. Had he not already had his attention focused on them, he might have missed it. Unmistakably, Doreau had cast another quick glance in her partner's direction. Involuntarily, Trunk held his breath and let the blinds partially close, afraid that _he_ might have been the target of her brief inspection. But her attention returned to her desk, with no indication she was aware of anything, save for her partner.

Trunk let the blinds close completely and turned slowly toward his desk, considering carefully what he had seen in that brief instant. Doreau's hair showed, at best, a casual brushing, rather than her usually meticulous grooming. It was hard to tell from the brief glimpse, but Trunk was also certain that she lacked any trace of makeup. Not that she really needed it, but like all women she seemed to think that there was some minimum standard – a quick brush to highlight her cheeks, a touch of mascara to bring out her already unforgettably grey blue eyes, and the ubiquitous touch of lipstick – that she was compelled to uphold. The lack of makeup this morning also served to emphasize a weary, almost bloodshot, look to her eyes. Although Trunk noticed all of these things, none of them were what registered on his psyche. Or perhaps it was all of them.

Trunk found himself at a loss to describe exactly what it was he _had_ seen. _Loss? Anger? Betrayal? Confusion? Sadness?_ All of those emotions, and none of them, had been in that split second glance. Suddenly, Trunk found himself seriously considering the unthinkable.

The fact was that the two of them had been together when he had last seen them the evening before, and again when he had first seen them this morning. Hammer's very presence here, at this hour, _could_ be explained if the two of them had arrived together. His unshaven face and barely combed hair matched Doreau's superficial attempt at makeup and grooming, and both suggested a rushed morning, perhaps at a neutral location. Finally, the complex of emotions he had seen in Doreau's glance at Hammer left him with the empty feeling of expectations somehow shattered beyond hope of repair. _Face it, with any other pairing, the conclusion would be obvious._ Trunk slumped into his chair, realizing that he faced with a situation beyond his worst nightmares.

_HAMMER – WHAT HAVE YOU DONE NOW?_

Unspoken, the words echoed and re-echoed in his mind.

_How did it happen?_ He asked himself. _OK, I know __how__ it happens, how could it happen to __Hammer and Doreau__? Doreau especially; I had more faith in her judgement and in her choice of men. What was she thinking … or __drinking__? Was __that__ it?_

Again, Trunk closed his eyes and tried to re-create the scene from the previous day.

_What had they been drinking?_ _Doreau had a glass with something dark in it. Hammer had been buying her root beers all night, _he recalled_. Hammer's glass appeared to be – white?_ _Milk?_! Trunk couldn't believe that he was even considering the possibility. _If a champagne fuelled night in the bridal suite while undercover hadn't thrown them into each other's arms, could he really believe that root beer and milk would have that effect?_ In fact, the worst scenario that Trunk could foresee was if Hammer was lactose intolerant. _That would hardly lead to a romantic tryst later that night. What then? What could have caused the unthinkable?_

_It must have been something that had happened earlier in the day_, Trunk mused. _Come to think of it, he was puzzled about how Doreau had apparently convinced Hammer to attend the wedding at all._ _How had she done __that__? __Why__ had she done that?_

From the moment that he had learned about the wedding, Hammer had acted in complete denial. Trunk knew that dinner with Scott, Susan and Doreau had gone badly the night before. Doreau's description of events, of how Hammer had drawn his gun on his ex-wife and shot up the restaurant, had seemed humorous at the time, but now took on more serious overtones. Hammer had obviously been ill at ease throughout Scott's bachelor party, culminating in his ridiculous attempt to arrest all of revelers, including Trunk himself. That also ended badly, he recalled, remembering Susan's stiff right to Hammer's jaw. What would it have taken to get Hammer past the fact that a woman had nearly broken his jaw in front of half the precinct? Few women had ever stood up to Hammer like that, and all of them …

_All of them had one thing in common – Hammer fell for them_, Trunk finished his own thought. _Susan Hilton, Angelica DelMonte; both were women who had faced Hammer in a physical confrontation. In Susan's case, Hammer had ended up married; the same might have happened with Angelica had she not reconciled with her mobster boyfriend leaving Hammer crushed. Doreau was as strong as either of them, _Trunk was certain,_ and Hammer did respect her fighting skills. It was common knowledge that Hammer had said he'd like to fight her someday – and she'd agreed to take him on. Had they fought? Had Doreau won? Hammer had been limping when he entered the church …_

News of something like that should have spread like wildfire. There was an office pool on the outcome of that fight and everyone in the building, Captain Trunk included, had a piece of the action. The "smart money" was all on Doreau – that without his gun Hammer would go down in a flurry of martial arts kicks – the "high heel to the nose" that Doreau had threatened to some other chauvinist officers on several occasions. Without his gun, Hammer was just another granola sucking wuss – that was _their_ theory, anyway.

Trunk wasn't so sure and had put _his_ money on Hammer. There was no one else in the office that came even close to Hammer in terms of treating men and women exactly the same. "Equal opportunity offenders" he called them, and arrested them all without a hint of gender bias. Trunk knew Hammer considered himself a gentleman, but Trunk also knew that, in any fight, instinct played a large role. Trunk was betting on Hammer's instincts.

_OK, a fight might explain Hammer,_ Trunk rationalized, _but what about Doreau?_ He sighed, realizing that while he could _pretend_ that there was a rational explanation for Hammer, Doreau was woman, and therefore beyond that sort of understanding. _Explain a woman, rationally? Had he completely lost his mind?_ They were the ones who had _invented_ make up sex, probably to make men _think_ they'd won an argument. Stronger than most men, they could be brought to tears by the most trivial of things, like puppies and weddings. _Weddings … how had he missed that?_

Trunk had been married himself, and had learned that there were only two times when a man was wrong: when he _thought_ he knew what was going on, and when she _told_ him that it was "fine". _You didn't, and it wasn't. It was that simple. Yet, he had clearly fallen into the trap of believing he knew what was going on, that certain things were preposterous, beyond consideration, and now he was paying the price for that hubris. So, things definitely weren't "fine" …_

A Captain Trunk returned to his desk to consider his options.

Although it was clear that something was affecting Hammer and Doreau, Trunk had no idea what it was, and neither of his officers appeared inclined to talk about it, not even to each other. He briefly considered calling both of them into his office anyway, before rejecting the idea. Hammer would simply deny there was anything wrong, and Trunk would never get him to talk – at least not without leverage. Doreau … he'd never seen Doreau like this, so he didn't know what to expect. She _might_ give him something, but not in front of her partner – especially if her partner was the problem.

_The trouble is, if I call her in here now Hammer will assume it's a new case and barge in anyway. If I try to lock him out, he will listen at the door … _

Trunk sighed. He needed to talk to Doreau alone, but he would have to bide his time until Hammer wasn't around.

_Maybe if I knew where they both were last night …_

It was a longshot, but Trunk made a mental note to make some discrete inquiries to the Traffic Division. _If either officer's car had been left on the street or had been driven erratically overnight it might have attracted someone's attention,_ he thought. _It might offer some clue to where they had been. That, in turn, could confirm his worst suspicions or … well, it never hurt to be thorough._

Aside from that, he had … nothing. All he could do was wait, and watch, and hope that one of them would slip up and leave him some clue as to what was going on. Captain Edmond F. Trunk was not used to waiting. It left him feeling the kind of impotent that no blue pill could cure.

_I do not like it_, he decided. _Not one little bit._


	2. Chapter 2 Detective Dori Doreau

Detective Dori Doreau knew exactly what hell felt like. She was experiencing it this morning. _I look like hell, too_, she thought, examining her reflection in the window as the shuttle bus pulled into the BART station. _It's not likely,_ she mused to herself as stepped off the shuttle, _that the morning commute will improve my appearance._ At that moment she was beyond caring about her appearance. All that mattered was arriving at the precinct ahead of her partner, Inspector Sledge Hammer.

She couldn't remember how much sleep she had gotten last night, but she doubted it was much. Her mind had swirled with unbidden thoughts, all whirling with no pattern; all demanding her attention. The redness she felt in her eyes was a result of her sleeplessness and the tears of frustration and hurt that had alternately flowed in the darkness before sunrise. The train arrived and she stepped on board, the doors shutting firmly behind her. It was early morning, so she was able to find an available seat. Moments later she was again replaying the previous evening's events – for what felt like the 50th time.

* * *

><p>She had stalked into her apartment sometime after midnight, slamming the door behind her, not caring how many neighbours she woke. She threw her purse on the table, not pausing to watch as it slid across the polished wood and onto the floor. She stomped her way into the bedroom, anger unassuaged. She ripped her shoes off one at a time, hurling each of them in turn into the closet. Briefly, she considered removing her dress and climbing into her bed. She sat down heavily on the bed instead, holding her head in her hands.<p>

_How __could__ he? How could __she__? __What__ was the point?_

As she sat on her bed, the questions swirled in her mind. In her current state sleep would be impossible, she knew. She reversed her path, heading toward the door that opened onto the terrace outside her apartment. On the way she paused just long enough to grab a glass and pour herself a drink. Of what, she neither noticed nor cared. Then she opened the door, and stepped outside. The cool, damp air that wrapped around her chilled her skin but did nothing to cool the fury within. She stood, rigid, staring out at the lights across the bay, at the reflection of the moon in the rippling water, and saw only the darkness.

_The clear night was unusual_, she noted as she drained the glass in a single gulp.

Dori Doreau was an optimist. Her apartment faced eastward, toward the bay, so that she could see the dawn, feel its promise, sense the joy of new challenges and opportunities. She revelled in the feeling, anticipating it, and embracing it each morning. Not even two years as the partner of Inspector Sledge Hammer had deadened the sense of _possibilities_ that she usually felt as the sun rose. _Until today_. Today dawn would bring only uncertainty and trepidation, and the moment that she couldn't face, but couldn't avoid either, would be upon her.

At first she welcomed the burning sensation as the undiluted liquor blazed a path down her throat and into her stomach. Like a controlled burn starves a forest fire by consuming the fuel in its path, the alcohol seemed burn away the emotional fuel that fed her anger. _As long as the burn stays controlled_.

_Tequila,_ she choked, as tears suddenly filled her eyes. _Why do I even have this stuff around?_

It was, of course, too late to reconsider. Once started, the tears refused to be stopped.

_Why, why, WHY?_ Her mind wailed at her.

The first tears in her eyes were from the alcohol, but those that streamed down her face now were from frustration.

_How often,_ she asked herself, _have I tried to get him to open up, even just a little? How many times have I tried to entice him with a home cooked meal? How many times have I begged him to let someone – no not __someone__, __me__ – in? _She corrected herself, forcing herself to be honest, at least in private.

_Well, I __finally__ succeeded. __Why didn't I see it coming? _She thought bitterly.

The tears ran freely now, their moist tracks briefly warming her face with their passage. She tasted their salt on her lips. _Salt and tequila. Poetic justice,_ she thought, _since once again life has handed me a lemon_.

* * *

><p>The long talk she'd had with him yesterday afternoon had not ended the way she'd hoped. He'd seemed more distant than ever, beyond her reach, beyond anyone's reach. Irredeemable, she'd decided, with one last look over her shoulder as she walked away.<p>

So it surprised her when he turned up at the church, just as the ceremony was getting underway. It startled her when he declined the minister's invitation to "speak now" and offered no objections. And it confounded her to learn that he'd left his gun at home. Sure, he'd gone back right after the ceremony was finished. But clearly, somehow, _something_ she had said reached him.

_You might have thought we were companions_, she thought, recalling that they had spent most of the evening together.

Professionally, she'd grown used to his continual presence, as they had worked cases together. Still, it came as a surprise how easily, _how comfortably_, she'd accepted his presence socially, for that evening. How, with only a bit of encouragement, he'd remembered to hold her chair, and had brought her drink, as well as his own, to the table. Yes, she'd have preferred just a bit of alcohol, but the root beer was … thoughtful … and it was the thought that counted. Briefly she had wondered about alien body snatchers. Had it not been for always present distance in his eyes, she might have taken the thought seriously.

As the evening wound down, the two of them had remained at the local cop bar after their fellow officers had gone. She had felt relaxed, suffused with a warm glow of accomplishment, perhaps even _happiness_, as she made small talk and idly stirred her drink. Another root beer.

_What had he said next?_ She tried to remember his words exactly. _Something about wanting to be alone? No, __not__ wanting to be alone, that was what he had said. And something about wanting to share his life, the good times and the bad?_

As she recalled the conversation, it struck her again how little it sounded like the Sledge Hammer she had come to know. How much it sounded like the vows she'd heard just hours earlier. _That alone should have served as a warning._

Why didn't I see it coming? Why were his next words still a surprise?

"Will you marry me?" He had asked.

_Yes__, _her heart sang. Her spirit seemed to soar, and her heart skipped in a way she had not felt in years. In a way she had never expected to feel again. _Could this actually be happening,_ she had thought? _Could__ he be serious?_

_No__,_ said her head, firmly. _You __know__ better._ _His history. __Your__ history._ _You're partners; you have to work together. Department policy._ _There had to be a dozen reasons, __good__ reasons, for not getting involved with anyone from work. __Besides, he was chauvinistic, barbaric, nihilistic, and misogynistic. What future lurked in that?_ _There had to be ten times that many reasons for not getting involved with __him__. He __couldn't__ be serious._

It was a simple question, wasn't it? One with an equally simple choice of answers – yes, or no. She could take a chance, a wild leap into the unknown. They could work out the problems – other people had. Or she could play it safe. He would probably be hurt, but he'd understand. If she could get him this far, surely she could make him understand that "no" wasn't the same as "never". All the possibilities of a lifetime seemed within her reach.

_Oh, sure,_ she thought bitterly, _for about a __heartbeat._ Then, startled, she had spoken out loud the one thought common to her heart and mind.

"Are you serious?"

Even as she spoke the words, she'd seen the look in his eyes, and instantly knew the moment was over. Instantly, knew the words were wrong. Instantly, knew that there were other words, better words. Knew, also instantly, that it was too late.

In his eyes she saw the distance between them stretching to infinity. Saw the answer, even before he spoke it, which would close the door between them firmly. As she sought desperately for other words, any words, he spoke first – a single word that still stung.

"No."

The word was as nothing compared to the look she saw in eyes. Even as he spoke the single word, she saw … nothing at all. As if the moment had never existed. As though he was, and always would be, somewhere else.

With an indifferent shrug he'd gone back to stirring his drink. She'd dropped her head into her arms, as she tried to think of a way to repair the rift that had just been created. She was still trying when the bartender announced closing time. She had looked up to see Sledge paying the tab. She avoided his eyes as she gathered up her purse and turned toward the door. She tried to mumble "good night" but the words had been unintelligible, even to her. They left the bar, and once outside she hailed a cab. As it pulled to the curb, she reached for the door, and then hesitated.

_Should I at least offer him a ride home? It was worth one more try,_ she thought. _Wasn't it?_

She turned, expecting to see her partner nearby, but instead was shocked to see him hurrying in the opposite direction. And he _appeared_ to be talking to his gun. As if it was a person.

Anger flared. She jerked the cab door open and slipped inside, giving the driver her home address. When the cab pulled away, passing Hammer on the street, she was looking the other way.

* * *

><p>She shivered, suddenly aware that she was still standing on her terrace, the empty glass still in her hand. She sat down in one of the patio chairs, feeling as empty as the glass she held. Twirling it by its stem, she briefly considered whether she needed a refill, or to put it down. It was useless, she decided, with a sigh. Even if she could silence the voice in her mind tonight, at best it deferred the inevitable. The voice inside her head would speak its piece, sooner or later. She might as well get it over with.<p>

_Why are male egos so fragile?_ She wondered. _Why did he have to be in such a hurry to deny the very question he had asked? If he'd given me just a moment longer, the right words would have come. I could have _explained_ myself. Was another moment too much to ask?_

A tiny spark of anger flared again inside her. She fanned the spark, willed it to grow.

_Yes! __He__ had been the one to say "No". __He__ had withdrawn from __her__, shutting her out without any debate or discussion. Why should she feel responsible? __She would rather feel angry, than hurt or empty_, she decided.

But even anger couldn't silence the questioning voice inside her.

What did you expect? It was a simple question – and a simple answer – yes or no. And no man asks someone to marry him expecting to hear "No".

_I didn't tell him "No",_ she objected, trying to sustain her anger.

It was useless, she knew. She was arguing with herself. Worse, it was her logical self; the part of herself that she counted on to unravel the most complex criminal cases. That part of herself that would offer no help at all in dealing with her emotional recriminations. It would only point out the obvious, mocking her failure. She knew that. Knowing wasn't the same as stopping.

_You didn't say "Yes",_ it reminded her. _Why can't you just face the truth?_

_What truth was that?_

_It was a simple question. If it was what __you__ really wanted …?_

That was the real question, wasn't it? Do I know what I really want? And if I do, why hadn't the answer come easily? Why was I so startled by his forthrightness that all I could do was blurt out, "Are you serious?" Wasn't the question itself sufficient?

_Maybe __I'm__ not ready yet. Maybe, subconsciously, I know that. Maybe …_

_So, why wasn't the answer "No"? What is __really__ bothering you?_

The voice had her on that point. She had no answer to that question.

No answer you will admit to …, the voice mocked her.

She sighed. _The voice inside her head wasn't content to just listen to her problems. It just had to offer an opinion on everything._ _It was definitely male,_ she decided. _Well, Sledge said I was losing my femininity, so maybe this is one of the symptoms._

No answer you will admit to …, it repeated.

The spark of anger guttered, extinguished by another wave of sadness, and despair. The tears that had briefly subsided threatened to well up again.

_When I left his apartment, I was certain he wouldn't even come to the wedding. I had given up._

_Given up? On what? On him, letting you into his life? _

The voice that mocked her from the dark recesses of her mind refused to give her any respite. It simply continued.

_Why haven't you tried letting him into yours?_

_I have,_ she protested. _Every effort that I've made to penetrate the shell that surrounds him has been rebuffed. He fends me off, pushes me away, and deflects my every attempt to get through to him. He would rather eat frozen dinners than accept an offer of a home cooked meal; rather chase a felon through concrete canyons rather than spend a moment in the park; even in the face of death he preferred the satisfaction of pursuing his assailant to an offer of solace._

The anger inside her grew again, and she fanned the flames.

_Until today, _the voice countered.

_Yes. Until today._ She surrendered, but even that didn't quiet the voice in her head.

_Why do you want what you hope you can't have? _It asked.

Her body stiffened.

_What do you mean?_

_He asked you to marry him. If you __really__ wanted into his life, why didn't you say "yes"?_

_What does it matter? _She hissed back. _Why can't things just be simple? _

_Why are you avoiding the question? Why wasn't your answer "yes"?_

_It's complicated, _she began.

_It's not complicated, _the voice interrupted her_, you and Hammer are the same …_

_Me? Like __Hammer__? I'm __nothing__ like him!_ Her protest was in vain.

_Are you sure of that? _

The question startled her.

_Everyone at the precinct, including Captain Trunk, knows that the two of us are polar opposites. It was so obvious …_

The voice in her head began to laugh, softly, as though amused by her argument.

_He's __alone__,_ she stated, defensively.

_You're__ alone, _it countered, still sounding amused. _He's been the only one in your life, and after tonight …_

The voice left the thought unfinished as though taunting her.

_He __startled__ me, s_he insisted, searching for an excuse._He's__ the one who said "No", not me. _

Her protest was met by silence.

_I've __always__ been the one trying to get him to open up, to let me into his life_. _He__ always pushes __me__ away. __He__ won't let anyone close._

_And __you__ thought that made him __safe__. You thought if everyone saw you trying to get his attention, no-one would notice that you … _

_NO! _She protested.

_That's not very convincing …_

She decided to try another approach.

_He's hiding from something …_

She knew, well she was pretty certain that she knew, that Inspector Hammer hid _something_ behind his façade of misogyny and nihilism. Some secret he did not want the world or her, in particular, to see. Some hurt, some wound perhaps, that he refused to let heal. Whatever it was, it was the shield he used to ward off any semblance of attachment, or dependence, on anyone. Or anything, except his magnum and his willingness to use it.

_Did I really expect any different result from our discussion in his apartment? Why do I even bother trying? _

_Because I've been his partner long enough to see that shield occasionally, momentarily, dropped_, she answered herself, not waiting for the voice.

Whether the burden was just too heavy to sustain, or whether he subconsciously _wanted_ someone to see, she didn't know. But she knew what she had seen.

She'd seen in on their first case. On suspension and against explicit orders from Captain Trunk, he had followed her to the warehouse. At the moment she'd been taken captive, he'd crashed through the roof like some comic book hero. She smiled to herself. _All that was missing was a cape._ The fact that she hadn't actually needed his help was of less importance than the fact that he had defied everyone else to give it. To her own surprise, she found that she didn't mind the _idea_ of being rescued.

She saw it again when Lionel Dashman had dazzled her with his English charm. Sweeping her up in clichéd visions of romance. When her naïvety had been exposed she had expected, at the very best, to hear "I told you so". Or, at worst, to be treated like some emotionally fragile female who could burst into tears at any moment. He'd done neither of those things. He'd surprised her again; acting as if none of the day's events were of any significance, and in so doing offering the one thing she needed most – a distraction from the day's events.

She saw it in an inadvertent "Thank you" and in his admission of "I know" – delivered in moments when the situation was dire and salvation seemed unlikely.

Instead of disagreeing, the voice inquired. _Why are you defending him?_

Too late, she saw that she had been trapped.

_I am defending him,_ she realized. _Why am I so determined to find something good …?_

She knew the answer to that, she realized. She _was_ more like Hammer than anyone had realized; more like him than she had ever admitted. She, too, kept a secret. Something that she had shared with no one, not even her partner. Something …

_You can tell me._

_No,_ she decided. _It had taken a long time to close that wound and move on with her life._

She would admit, to herself, only that the words he had spoken were words she had hoped to hear – someday.

_Someday__. Not __now__. Probably not from him. Certainly not __today__. _

_He tells __his__ gun __everything__._

_You're my conscience, not my sidearm._

_Are you certain of that?_

Doreau glanced sideways at the empty glass on the table beside her, mentally estimating the amount of alcohol she had consumed.

_I'm not __that__ drunk_, she decided.

Exhausted by an argument that could go on forever, and that she could never win, she dropped her head, resting it on her arms, crossed on the table before her. The earlier shot of tequila had partially numbed her body against the chill of the evening air. She felt herself start to drift through a warm, semi haze; mesmerized by a single question that she chased, futilely, through the endless corridors of her mind.

_Why didn't I see it coming?_

_Why?_

* * *

><p>Something tugged at the back of her mind, trying to get her attention. She was in a dark place, writing notes about … something. For a moment she felt totally alone but then, in the dim light from a single desk lamp, she became aware of a figure moving toward her; sitting down across from her. She continued writing, trying to ignore it. It sat silently, waiting … for what?<p>

She stole a glance, and confirmed her suspicions. The figure waiting in silence was that of her partner, Inspector Hammer. Shame and disappointment flooded through her. She was a fool. She'd been stupid. Surely he was here to gloat, to rub it in. Yet, he remained strangely silent. She tried to turn, to confront him, and had to catch at the table to regain her balance. She suddenly realized that she felt stiff, cold. And she was alone!

In the dim light, as she slowly oriented herself, she realized that she was still outside, on her terrace.

_How long,_ she wondered?

Last night's events briefly seemed distant, perhaps even a bad dream. The chill from the night air and the stale taste in her mouth were real enough though. As was the sliver of color over the eastern horizon that hinted at morning. She forced herself upright and, picking her empty glass up from the table, turned and shuffled inside, totally without purpose. The warmer air inside her apartment only served to emphasize the chill that she felt, and she rubbed her arms briskly. The movement warmed her, and brought her mind fully into the present. Glancing at the clock, she realized that she would have to leave soon, if she wanted to arrive at work at her usual time. Strangely, the realization seemed to offer no motivation at all.

_Does it matter if I'm late this morning?_

She found herself in the bathroom, staring past her own reflected image in the mirror. For some reason, the last image from her dream refused to go away.

_Her partner, sitting silently, saying nothing._ _Why? Why was it important?_

She closed her eyes, trying to concentrate. It took a while for her to connect the scene with someone else from her past. _Lionel Dashman!_ After he'd been exposed as an international assassin, and she'd been exposed as his patsy, she'd retreated to her desk hoping to be left alone. Hammer had found her.

_Why am I remembering that now?_

Wait a minute!

Suddenly she was wide-awake, staring into the mirror.

_Maybe last night could be a bad dream! He'd acted as if nothing had happened __then__._ _Why not now, too? What do I have to lose?_

She glanced at her watch, and at the brightening eastern sky. There should still be time.

She almost gave up when she looked again at the mirror, this time seeing herself fully: the mess of her makeup and her tousled hair. She didn't have time to fix that; she needed to arrive before him for her plan to work. She settled for wiping her face clean, and running a brush through her hair.

_Her shoes – the closet! _She remembered. She hurried into the living room, searching for her purse and finally finding it on the floor. Gathering it up, she hurried out the door, locking it hastily behind her. She had to arrive early.

Her ride to the precinct left her unnaturally impatient. The BART came smoothly to a halt. She bolted through the partially opened doors ignoring the startled passengers, and hurried out of the station. Normally she was at her desk, reviewing cases when he arrived. If she gave the impression that today was just another day; that nothing out of the ordinary had passed between them, maybe he would be professional enough to go along. She hoped!

As she walked briskly up the front steps into the precinct offices, she stared straight ahead, discouraging eye contact from anyone. She maintained this same rigid pose during the elevator ride to her floor. She didn't have time for conversation.

Taking a deep breath, she stepped out of the elevator, and into the hallway. Walking down that hallway, toward her desk, as though today was any other day, required every ounce of will power she possessed. She was later than usual, she knew. But it wasn't even 7:30 yet and her partner was never in before 8:30. She felt confident; a sense of relief washed over her.

_Maybe, if I'm lucky, he won't be in at all_.

Still, she found herself holding her breath as she reached the bullpen area. Turning the final corner she instantly squeezed her eyes shut.

"Not now," she hissed under her breath.

She inhaled sharply, trying to steel herself, to prepare for what she knew came next. Feeling a thread of her normal self-control return, she opened her eyes again. Nothing had changed. There _he_ was, at _his_ desk, directly across from _hers_, head down doing … paperwork? Fury rose inside her.

_Why, of all mornings, did he have to be early today? Can't I depend on him for __anything__?_

Something seemed to snap and she realized that the heat of her anger was gone, replaced by the icy chill of determination. He was _never_ in the office on time. It was almost a standing joke that he was _punctually_ a half hour late. So why was he here now? Look at him! This morning, apparently, something was more important than taking the time to shave, even! Doreau was certain it had to be connected to last night.

_But how? Was he trying to turn over a new leaf? An unshaven and dishevelled, but new, leaf? Why?_

Well, she could hardly stand here all day, analysing Hammer. She willed herself to move. Drawing herself up, steeling her determination, she stepped into the room – confidently, she hoped.

She paced herself across the floor, crossing the space between her and her desk in steady, even strides. Her heels clicked on the hard, functional surface, making her feel strangely self-conscious as she made her way. An even, regular cadence, she thought to herself, listening to the click, click, click. The sound seemed to echo in her ears.

_Too loudly,_ she wondered? _No matter._

She found herself wanting him to know it was her, wanting him to hear her footsteps and look up, smile, crack one of his ridiculous jokes … anything at all to let her know that last night was behind them, forgotten.

Nothing. Hammer remained lostin thought, oblivious to her presence. Her heart sank as her confidence flagged.

She reached her desk, and hung her purse over the chair back, ready to be picked up in an instant if a call came in. She opened her desk drawers and began pulling out the active case files she had put away neatly the previous Friday. She searched for her pencil and pad of paper, but they were gone, missing …

She stole a glance across the desk towards her partner, busily studying a pad of paper before him and tapping a mangled pencil against the edge of his desk. There was no doubt in her mind where he gotten them. She was tempted to demand them back, but from the look of the pencil in Hammer's hand, she decided she didn't want them … certainly not badly enough to make a scene. Still, she fumed silently all the way to the stationary cabinet and back.

Finally, like she did every morning, she began going through each of her files carefully, meticulously, making notes as she did. Usually she did this while she waited for her partner to appear, so she would know the case particulars when they went out to investigate each one. This morning she did it while wondering why he wouldn't look at her, or even acknowledge her existence.

Her inner voice resumed its questioning and her determination began to wilt.

_You should have approached more quietly, more discretely._

The voice began, chiding her. The sound of her heels against the floor had not only served to announce her arrival, but had identified her as well. There were not that many female officers, and fewer still who felt comfortable with her choice of footwear. Hammer would have known it was her from her footsteps alone. He didn't need to look up to know who it was.

_Why didn't I realize that earlier? Too late to change that now,_ she thought. _Too late to change anything._ _What was the point anyway?_

_Don't be stupid, _she told herself. Sledge was never serious about anything, much less last night. She needed to put it behind her. _Move on._

_So, why do I feel so rotten? Why won't he even look at me this morning? Why does it bother me?_ Questions with no answers continued to race in her head. She tried to focus her attention on the case files and had almost succeeded when the sound of footsteps approaching interrupted her concentration. She was pretty sure she recognized that walk – Captain Trunk.

_This could be interesting!_

Doreau forced herself to appear focused and fully engrossed by the case file in front of her, even as her hearing was attentive to sounds of those footsteps. The footsteps hesitated, about ten to fifteen feet away, she judged. Stealthily, she stole a glance at her partner. Hammer seemed totally oblivious.

_Why?_ _It wasn't normal for Sledge to pass up an obvious opportunity to pitch his latest hare-brained crime fighting proposal to the Captain._

Briefly, she thought Captain Trunk was going to speak, but his steps resumed; fading in the direction of his office.

_It's going to be a long morning,_ she thought to herself, as she resumed her review of Case 425-15439.


	3. Chapter 3 Inspector Sledge Hammer

Inspector Sledge Hammer had heard that it was darkest just before the dawn. He wasn't sure he believed it though. Each day he rose before dawn, showered, got dressed and then set out for a nearby park. Every day, even the days he managed to be a few minutes early, the darkness seemed just about the same.

Later in the day, that park would be the destination of choice for numerous joggers, bicyclists, and others out for a bit of exercise or even those just looking for a relaxing stroll. That would be then, this was now. _Now_, just before dawn, Inspector Hammer thought of it as his own private fishing hole; stocked with all manner sea urchins, scum suckers, and other bottom feeders, with some occasional pieces of driftwood thrown in for variety. By hitting the park trails in the darkness, before the public showed up, and doing his very best imitation of fish food, Inspector Hammer knew he would land several prize specimens.

Most mornings Inspector Hammer would arrive at the booking desk, smiling happily and whistling the theme from "Snow White" by 8:00. He would bring along with him a string of merry miscreants, all neatly linked together like a group of four year old children so no one would get lost. To ensure that they were merry, he insisted that they all join in on the chorus.

_Hi ho, hi ho, it's off to work we go …._

Inspector Hammer knew how the system worked. He knew the felons he reeled in today would be put through the booking process, they would make their phone calls, and by noon their lawyers would start trickling in. After a bit of legal manoeuvring, some calls to bail bondsmen and after all the relevant paperwork was completed and filed, they would likely all be out in time for dinner that evening. Catch and release some called it. Inspector Hammer called it "Daycare". It kept the fishing hole stocked with plentiful mature specimens so that tomorrow morning's fishing would be just as good as the morning before, and the morning before that.

Several times he'd offered suggestions he was certain would make the process more efficient. The easiest solution, he thought, would be to allow him to take all of his charges directly to holding cells, dispensing with unnecessary bureaucracy and paperwork. Failing that, access to photocopier so that he didn't have to fill out the same forms _every_ morning. No one listened; no one _ever_ listened.

So, by the time he had finished explaining, patiently, to the booking officer the charges against each of his "catch"; by the time all of the necessary forms had been completed; by the time the last fish was in the tank and Inspector Hammer was able to report to work _officially_, he knew he would be, again _officially_, about half an hour late.

It wasn't that Hammer _intended_ to arrive at his desk late; in fact, if you counted his hours in the park, he was _early_, not late, each morning. He'd tried, but so far failed, to get Captain Trunk and his partner to see that perspective. But, Inspector Sledge Hammer was an optimist, so he looked for a bright side to the situation. Half an hour was enough time for his partner to finish her first cup of coffee and get any morning gossip out of her system before he arrived. Half an hour gave Doreau time to finish whatever it was she did on her computer, so that they could get down to the serious business of making the streets safe. And finally, after half an hour, Captain Trunk, who was so anxious to see him _in_ the office, couldn't wait to see him _out_ again. Yes, mornings _were_ worth looking forward to.

_Most_ mornings, but not _this_ morning, he thought sourly. Hammer had spent the night cruising the nearly empty city streets all through the early morning hours. He hadn't been home; he hadn't showered, or shaved. He had missed his early morning troll in the park. Instead, he was at his wits end. And a dead end. Literally, it appeared. The sign now leaning against the hood of his car said so.

_Well, if I can't go forward_ …

Moving the gear selector to the reverse position, he depressed the gas pedal, which had the immediate effect of causing the sign to topple the rest of the way into the street, making a loud crashing noise as it did. Almost immediately he felt himself thrown hard back against his seat as the car again stopped, with an accompanying loud, solid sounding _bang!_ He checked the rear-view for any obvious obstacles. Seeing nothing but a fountain of water, he changed gears again, this time steering his St Regis towards the main road. As he did so, he had a clear view of water spraying violently from what was clearly a defective fire hydrant.

_You'd think people would notice something like that and report it to the city_, he thought, wondering why he was the only one who noticed such details..

By the time the first lights were coming on in houses surrounding him, and sleepy voices were wondering aloud what all the ruckus was about, he had reached the main street once again and turned west. At least he thought the sky looked brighter in the _other_ direction, so he was pretty sure _this_ was west. He needed the night to last as long as possible.

For hours on end he had crisscrossed the city, visiting all of Gun's favourite haunts. The gun shop. The firing range. The little pastry shop where they let Gun help make donut holes. They were all closed. He didn't understand it. If you could rent a copy of Dancing with the Stars – Season 9 at 3:00 in the morning, why couldn't you buy .44 magnum ammunition? Or help make pastry with perfectly centred holes – a personal favourite? At each location, he'd taken Gun from beneath his jacket, hoping that the familiar surroundings would elicit some response. Each time he was met with bitter silence. At least he _thought_ the silence sounded bitter.

He'd even tried to get Gun a hot oil massage. For a while it had looked like he might succeed, until it became clear to the young lady in the out of the way alley that by "gun" he meant _Gun_. Even though moments before she had been all "anything you like for 50 bucks", she had abruptly changed her mind, and had actually run out into the street in front of an SFPD patrol car, making ridiculous claims about a pervert in a green car propositioning her. Pervert? Shish, she was the one with her mind in the gutter. He had a _badge_. What was a badge, if it wasn't a permit to carry a gun? And when had proper gun care become a perversion? The patrol officer had nonetheless held him for a full 20 minutes carefully checking his badge number, his driver's license, and his vehicle registration with Dispatch before letting him go with a stern warning to deal with the eight parking violations that turned up on his car registration. Eight? Pffft! The volume discount didn't kick in until he reached a dozen.

Normally Hammer would have approved of the young officer's attention to detail. _The main reason so many genetic mutants were loose on the streets_, he thought, _was because someone hadn't paid attention to details. That, and poor aim_. Still, over the course of 20 minutes Hammer gradually began to wonder if you could have too much of a good thing, especially when you were the detail.

Driving westward, as the sky gradually brightened, the streets gradually took on a more familiar appearance. Suddenly recognizing his location, Hammer turned at the next cross street, and pulled to the curb in front of the precinct building. The car stopped smoothly, without a crashing sound or a jolt. Something didn't feel right. He put the car in reverse, backing up a few feet before stopping again. _Still not right,_ he thought. Then it came to him, there were no other cars on the street; nothing at all to provide a tactile sense of where his parking space was. He shrugged his shoulders.

_It would have to do_, he thought, getting out of the car and preparing to cross the street.

He checked both directions first of course. According to captain Trunk, he was the _only_ officer who used warning shots to discipline errant pedestrians, but it never hurt to be cautious.

Inside the building a sleepy looking security guard stopped him, insisting on seeing his ID before allowing him to proceed.. For the second time that morning Hammer fumed as he searched through his jacket pockets, finally finding his badge in the last one. And for the second time that morning he found himself to be the object of a detailed inquisition. Apparently the semi-conscious guard had nothing better to do at this hour than inspect his ID. He kept up a steady stream of one sided conversation while comparing Hammer's badge number and photo ID to a list on his desk.

"Pretty early, isn't it Hammer?" "Don't see you much at this time of day Hammer." "Everything OK Hammer?" "Need any help Hammer?"

Even half awake, this guy was twice as chatty as Doreau at a wedding. Which made him four times as annoying to Hammer.

"Where's your partner Hammer?"

The last question he found particularly grating. After the debacle with Lionel Dashman, Doreau had changed apartments, and had so far resisted all his efforts to determine her address or phone number. So, he quite literally had no idea where she was, and even less idea why that fact seemed irksome. He told the guard the first part while keeping the rest to himself.

Meanwhile, the guard continued following him to, and for a moment Hammer was afraid into, the elevator. Only after Hammer exclaimed in a stage whisper that he thought he saw a dust bunny making a break for the street, and punched the "Door Close" button, was he able to escape.

As he rode the elevator up, Hammer reflected on the unusual position he now found himself in; that of being the first officer to arrive his desk on a Monday morning. Or any morning for that matter, as far as he could remember. He had not had an opportunity to take his regular morning target practice. The sun wasn't even fully over the horizon yet. He hoped he could find the light switch.

_At least I should have privacy,_ he thought. _And time to think._

The unnaturally loud chime of the elevator as it reached his floor had him instinctively reaching for his sidearm, until he realized that it was only the eerie stillness that made the noise seem so loud. His footsteps on the floor echoed down the empty hallway, further emphasising the fact that, at this time of day, the normally bustling bullpen area was completely deserted. He was, as far as he could see, completely alone. Even the normally humming fluorescent lights were turned off and silent. An eerie chill began to creep up his spine.

_How many times have I sat in a darkened theatre, wondering what sort of idiot would walk into an apparently empty, darkened room, not knowing what lurked within?_

Hammer's left hand searched along the darkened wall until he found the light switch. He hesitated, reaching inside his sports jacket until his hand closed on the familiar grips of his magnum. Then, in one smooth motion, he flipped the light switch while simultaneously drawing his magnum and stepping forward into a crouched position.

_Empty!_

The room was deserted, but he found the white antiseptic glare from the overhead lights was suddenly welcome, comforting. Glancing around he confirmed that no officers were sleeping at their desks, ready to take him by surprise. Captain Trunk's office was clearly visible and similarly unoccupied. Feeling slightly self-conscious, he slid Gun back under his jacket and shrugged, to no-one in particular, as he glanced at the clock. It would probably be another hour before the first officers would begin to stream in, and the floor assumed its normal state of controlled chaos. He realized he was holding his breath and exhaled – slipping into his chair as he did so.

For a moment he paused, confused. Recently he'd grown accustomed to letting Doreau, whom he still thought of as his _junior_ partner, do the thinking, while he concentrated on the action items. He shrugged. He'd made Inspector before he met her, and although he knew there were some jealous people who thought he'd simply shot his way to the top; he knew it had taken more than just marksmanship. It took a moment, seated alone at his desk, before old instincts kicked in. He needed to get organized. He opened his desk drawer, looking for a pad of paper and a pencil. All he found was a collection of World War II cartridges, and his spare grenade.

_So __that's__ where I left it._

He carefully checked the paper clip he was temporarily using while he searched surplus stores for a replacement pin. The grenade looked safe, but it was too small to write on, even if he had a pen. Seeing nothing else useful in his current situation, he closed the drawer gently. Then he realized his problem had a simple solution.

Glancing around and assuring himself that no one would see him, he rose, slipped quickly around to Doreau's side of the desk, and liberated a pad and a pencil from her drawer. Feeling only slightly guilty, he returned to his chair and sat, silently contemplating the blank paper and his equally blank mind.

_Where should he start?_ He wondered. _Describe the problem. That's a good place to start,_ he told himself.

"_Problem",_ he scrawled across the top of the page, and then continued. _"Gun"._

From the time he had first strapped on a holster, Gun had been the one constant in his life. His one confidant. The _only_ one he shared innermost thoughts with, in spite of Doreau's nosey attempts at meddling. The one time they had been separated, his life had fallen apart. His self-confidence had been shattered, his ability to function as a police officer placed in doubt. He knew that there were others, like Captain Trunk, who doubted his abilities as a police officer all of time, but normally he did not share their concerns. _He_ knew he was a cop, and that was all that mattered. Well, that and his gun – _those_ were all that mattered.

Through all of their time together, Hammer realized, he had never encountered a situation like the one he found himself in now. Hammer had experienced occasional bouts of silence during his previous marriage. From time to time his current partner chose not to speak to him. Hammer found those moments to be peaceful bliss. Hammer was even used to Captain Trunk telling him to shut up. This was completely different. For the first time in their relationship, Gun was refusing to speak to him. In spite of his best efforts, his pleading and driving all over town, Gun was still silent. Hammer had no idea why and worse, he had no idea how to make amends.

_What did I do? _He wondered. _What had gone wrong?_

Hammer had never been one to reflect on his past. _It was past_, he liked to think. Last night, his ex-wife, his ex-partner now rotting in jail, his high school, all of it was the past and he wished it would stay there. Something to be endured, like his prom night, remembering how at one point he had thought, _somebody cut my head off with an axe – just put me out of my misery. _ _Enough sentimentality._ He still felt that way.

_Well, it's all coming back to me now,_ he thought, wondering if Jim Cogan was somehow responsible for his current mess.

Hammer shrugged. It didn't matter; if he was going to find the reason for Gun's current silence, then he had to review the events of the last few days, however painful that process might be.

Gritting his teeth so hard he bit the eraser off the pencil he was holding, Hammer let his mind drift back in time. Although he knew when it had started, he hoped he didn't know why. He needed to recall recent events, hoping to find something, anything else that could explain Gun's behaviour. If there was another explanation, whatever clues there were had to be there, somewhere in his recent past. He swallowed hard, and nearly choked. Suddenly remembering the eraser, he spit it into his garbage and tried to focus.

_When had it started? Two, no three, days ago?_

* * *

><p>Hammer had begun the morning – like every normal morning – with a routine that was akin to a military drill. <em>He<em> showered; he carefully wiped Gun's frame and cylinder clean and dry, paying particular attention to the grooves in the grips where dirt could collect. He brushed _his_ teeth; he carefully removed each bullet from Gun, polished it, and set it back in its place. After flossing _his_ teeth he then flossed carefully between Gun's cylinder and the frame. He did thirty minutes of calisthenics then, much to his neighbours' dismay, gave Gun a quick workout, rousing everyone in the building. He was pretty sure there had been nothing out of the ordinary. Gun had given him a cheery click, click, click as he spun the cylinder before placing it snugly into the split leather holster under his arm, and heading off to the park.

Fishing in the park had gone exceptionally well. Along with the regular catch of minnows and small fry, Hammer had managed to hook something large enough to grill himself. He had known as soon as he saw the man carrying a bag of knitting needles that this one wasn't getting away. Dominic Tauber, aka the Voodoo Killer, had stumbled into Hammer's grasp.

Ignoring Dominic's requests for a lawyer and a phone call, Hammer had locked him in Interrogation before taking the rest of his miscreants to central booking. All during the boring routine process that followed, Hammer had been salivating at the thick, juicy fillet o' fish waiting to be BBQd in the interrogation room. Gun was hoping to help, too. Neither one of them had counted on Doreau's curiosity.

Puzzled by the locked door to interrogation, she had started asking questions. Discovering that Hammer had a suspect in the "Voodoo Murders" locked inside she had pulled the case file and all of the evidence. By the time Hammer got back to interrogation, Doreau was waiting for him. Worse, she was having Majoy replace the burnt out light. Hammer preferred the tactical advantage conferred by darkness but Doreau insisted, as she always did, on being by the book. She also insisted that Dominic had rights. He had a right to a phone call. He had a right to a lawyer. Yadda, yadda, yadda. All Hammer had a right to was a stupid doll.

Too many cops spoil the interrogation he always said. Sure enough, Meat Loaf's lawyer had shown up before Hammer was able to get him to sing. The lawyer turned out to be an old high school buddy, Scott Grable. It was sad to see that one of his old classmates had ended working on the wrong side of the law. Oh well, the economy was tough, and people were taking work where ever they could find it. Scott had been his friend; they'd actually been close in school; maybe he wasn't beyond redemption. Maybe, if he tried, he could at least convince him to be a prosecutor rather than a defendant.

* * *

><p>Hammer shook his head, staring at the still blank sheet of paper. He was certain that there was nothing to that point to upset Gun. Sure, thanks to Doreau, they hadn't gotten a single shot off, but Gun seemed upset with <em>him<em>, not Doreau. Hammer sighed; not only was the justice system flawed, karma didn't seem to be on his side either.

Hammer resumed chewing on his pencil. Normally, when he came to an impasse like this, Gun was able to help him find an alternative course of action. If conversation didn't do the trick then a few rounds at the range, fired without ear protection, usually cleared his head. Today, he didn't have that option; in fact he didn't have any options. He needed a clue, and the only place he would find one was in his past, no matter how distasteful the search might be.

_Enough reality_, he thought.

* * *

><p>Hammer eventually left the precinct and joined Scott, Doreau and Captain Trunk, and a few of his fellow officers at their regular bar. A lively game of table hockey was in progress, which Hammer was successfully ignoring until someone tossed the puck across the room like a clay pigeon. Instinctively, he had shot it out of the air before it could hit anyone.<p>

_Just like a bunch of kids,_ he thought. _It's only funny until someone loses an eye._

About then, Hammer's conversation with Scott was interrupted by a call on his new police radio. A "215" at Third and Grande – nothing promised fun like a carjacking with fast moving targets. That also gave him an idea; maybe if Scott saw seedy underbelly of the city from Hammer's point of view, it would help him turn his life around. It was worth a try.

It hadn't worked. In fact, after they chased down the carjacking creeps, Scott started handing out his cards to what he insisted on calling "carjacking _suspects_". Hammer had been forced to whisk him away to his apartment, before the situation became embarrassing.

They had passed the rest of the evening with pizza and Hammer's old high school yearbook. They had each other's backs during high school and had shared several interests, track and field events among them. Hammer was still thrilled remembering how everyone had run and jumped excitedly whenever he had fired his pistol. Even if it was only blanks …

In spite of himself Hammer enjoyed spending time with Scott. Yeah, Scott still had a few things to learn about marriage, but give him time. Maybe at dinner tomorrow night, Doreau would be able to get through to him.

The next day had begun innocently enough. Doreau always had that innocent demeanor when she was trying to get him to open up about something. What had she been going on about? Lawyers, stereotypes, friends, relationships and something that sounded like "na, na, na, num de dum"; it all seemed to run together until, finally, a Dispatch call ended her nattering. Remarkably, it turned out to be an opportunity to re-arrest Dominic Tauber, and enrol him in the Sledge Hammer daycare program. The vermin was robbing a store to get money to pay his lawyer for bailing him out the day before. Unbeknownst to Doreau, Hammer had booked Dominic under a nom de plume, so _this time_ Scott was going to have to _work_ for his money.

* * *

><p>Inspector Hammer paused and made another notation on the page. He distinctly remembered now the brief conversation he'd had with Gun after Scott had left the apartment. Gun had even agreed that Scott seemed like a great guy. He searched his memory of that incident but could recall nothing unusual about the moment. Gun had seemed entirely normal and, more importantly, Gun had still been speaking to him.<p>

_Is it possible that Gun is annoyed with me for using a bowling ball to arrest Dominic?_

_No way!_ Hammer rejected the idea. _Gun enjoys a comic moment as much as I do. Besides, everything was still fine at dinner that night, _he thought remembering distinctly how Gun had been celebrating_._

_Clues,_ Hammer told himself. _I need clues, not fond memories._

* * *

><p>Hammer wasn't certain what he had expected when he'd suggested that he and Doreau meet Scott and his fiancée for dinner, but he had not been expecting his ex-wife. Gun had agreed with him, enthusiastically, firing off a parting shot.<p>

The next morning Doreau was busy spreading rumors about their meeting; Scott was busy springing Dominic from jail again; and Hammer was wondering how much more happiness he could take. Then Scott asked him to be best man, and his happiness knew no bounds. Not happiness _for_ Scott, who was obviously bent on making the biggest mistake a man could make; happiness because he finally had a way to _prevent_ Scott from making a huge mistake. He simply arrested the entire party. Gun applauded his plan excitedly.

Hammer's plan was succeeding, too, until his ex-wife put in another appearance. Apparently bruising his ego earlier had been insufficient; she had to bruise his jaw as well.

_That_ was when Doreau had crossed the line. Doreau was a woman, so, when she'd gossiped about his remarkable restraint in the restaurant with Captain Trunk, Hammer was willing to make allowances. He'd made similar allowances when she'd stood by and let his ex-wife nearly broke his jaw. Hammer winced at the memory.

_I didn't know Susan could hit like that, perhaps Doreau hadn't known either. Wait a minute; am I making __excuses__ for her?_

Hammer shrugged it off. He couldn't shrug off what followed.

However she had done it, _somehow_ Doreau had ended up in his apartment. The only other times she had managed that feat, they had, technically at least, been working on a case. Once, his apartment had even been the crime scene.

_How cool was that?_

This time though, he didn't have that excuse and he could, therefore, make no allowances. There was no way to deny, or excuse, the fact that they were alone, together. Doreau, he remembered, had seemed determined to make the most of the opportunity. Determined and persistent. And this time she wasn't on _a_ case, she was on _his_ case.

Doreau, saying that he should be happy for his friends. Doreau, saying he should go to the wedding and have a good time. Doreau, saying that she would be there for him, if he would just let her in. Doreau …

For some reason she refused to let the matter drop. The only thing she'd left out was the home cooked meal. Maybe she had seen that his jaw hurt too much to think about dinner. Why couldn't she also see that she _was_ in, but that where he wanted her to be was _somewhere else_? Didn't _anyone_ understand that he'd already been to one too many weddings? Hammer actually thought he'd succeeded in discouraging her. She seemed to have given up, and turned to walk away.

Something in her last backward glance before she left had almost made him reconsider.

* * *

><p>Hammer sighed in resignation. <em>What was it about Doreau …?<em>

The sheet of paper in front of him was still nearly blank. He really needed to be concentrating on discovering what had upset Gun, not thinking about …

_Doreau__ … Ever since she had been assigned as his partner, Doreau had tried every ploy in her feminine arsenal on him. _

"Sledge, let me into your life." "A home cooked meal Sledge." "Let's just spend some time together, Sledge."

In his mind he mimicked her phrasing and tone. He'd successfully rebuffed all of her attempts, keeping her on the periphery of his life. Although she more or less pulled her own weight in their partnership, it was still his responsibility, as the man on the team, to protect her. Doreau might be good looking, and intelligent … and good looking … but she was still a woman, and therefore by definition the weaker link. Besides, he had learned the hard way the dangers of letting anyone get close to him. His first partner had betrayed his oath to uphold the law, forcing Hammer to arrest him. His wife had left him, and now was marrying his best friend. Hammer knew _firsthand_ what it was like to let someone into his life, and then lose them. Hard things were easiest to deal with when there were no personal attachments to make them harder. So, while he had become accustomed to working with Doreau, and could even grudgingly admire her skills on the job, outside of the office they only met at the little bar where their fellow officers gathered to let off steam when they were off duty. Hammer was determined that they would never share more than a root beer and a job description. That he would never …

He hesitated, unable … or unwilling … to complete that thought. He wondered briefly which, before deciding that it didn't matter.

_My problem is with Gun, not Doreau. I'm only reliving these events in search of __clues__,_ he reminded himself. Hammer discovered he wasn't even listening to himself.

Whether Doreau was pursuing a case, or trying to break down the defenses he had erected around himself, she was the most determined, persistent individual he had ever encountered. He could almost admire her for it. Except when, like the rookie cop from earlier this morning, her focus was Hammer. Then it wasn't determination, or persistence, it was _nagging_.

_Had he let her constant nagging finally get inside his defenses?_

This was exactly the sort of situation where he valued Gun's advice …

* * *

><p>With Doreau gone, <em>finally<em>, from his apartment, he had turned to Gun, hoping for understanding and, perhaps, some consolation, not advice for the lovelorn.

"_Well, amigo, it's just you and me."_ He remembered his words clearly. He remembered Gun's response just as clearly.

"_Doreau was right, you know, you __should__ be happy for them. You __should__ go to the wedding, at least to keep an eye on her. She is your __partner__. What if she meets up with some single, liberal, do-gooder like that piece of earwax, __Lionel Dashman__? Who will protect her if __you__ aren't there?"_

Hammer had felt his teeth clenching at the mere thought of _another_ Lionel Dashman taking advantage of Doreau.

_But if I change my mind now, Doreau will think she was ri … rig …_

He tried to change the subject.

"_You'll never leave me", _he said, playing to Gun's sense of _duty_.

"_Captain Trunk has a point, too. This will finally put an end to those ridiculous alimony payments. You'll have more money __and__ we can spend more time at the shooting range, at the ammo shop, and __maybe__ you could even treat me to a better grade of gun oil. Gunpowder, by any other name, would smell as acrid …"_

For some reason, Gun was ignoring his entreaties. Hammer wanted to cover his ears with his hands and sing _na, na, na, na, num de dum_. But this was Gun, not some woman like Doreau he could ignore.

"_You're all I've got_ _…,"_ he pleaded.

"_Scott is a __lawyer__, you know. We should be sure there aren't __loopholes__ in the vows, shouldn't we? Besides you haven't ever taken __me__ to a nice wedding …_

… _a __nice__ wedding …? _Something in Hammer seemed to snap. He lost his temper.

_ENOUGH ANNE LANDERS!_ His mind screamed as he pushed Gun away.

He'd never been physical with Gun before, and was instantly sorry for his actions. He could fix the wall with some plaster and a bit of paint, but Gun was not that easy. Gun could be temperamental. And explosive.

"_Fine." _ Gun said in a stainless steely voice. _"If you don't want to listen …"_

"… _GET OUT!"_ Gun barked.

* * *

><p>Hammer pondered that moment, as he sat alone in the precinct bullpen. Something in that choice of words nagged at him. Something in the tone with which they were delivered nagged at him. He'd heard those words, and that tone, before, in another context. Gun was upset, he was certain, but something in the tone and phrasing suggested more than that. He made a brief notation on the pad in front of him.<p>

_Finally … possibly … a clue._

Then he let his mind drift back to that evening.

* * *

><p>Hammer had been taken aback. Gun had never spoken to him in that tone before. Deciding it was best to let Gun cool off, he left. The safest places he could think of for an unarmed man were either Canada or a church. Since Canada was a two day drive, he ended up at a church; the same church, it turned out, where Scott and his ex-wife were getting married.<p>

When he entered, the Minister had just uttered the words "speak now or forever hold his peace". They were followed by silence. The kind of silence you get when everyone in the room, collectively, holds their breath anticipating _something_.

_What did they think he was going to do, steal somebody's gun and shoot up the church?_ _Shish, I don't __steal__._

He had felt just a little uncomfortable and a bit off balance without Gun at his side and it was nice of them to be concerned, but it was nothing for them to get upset about. He told them to get on with it.

Doreau made room for him beside her on the pew. She looked concerned, too, at first, but seemed to accept his explanation for leaving Gun at home. He had not stopped to wonder how he had come to be in the last place he wanted to be, with the last person he expected to be there with.

It wasn't long before Hammer began to regret leaving Gun at home alone. He was starting to fidget before the ceremony and by the time it was over the urge was beyond his ability to resist. It no longer mattered that Gun had been the one to insist that he get out. Hammer needed to be with Gun.

So, even though he had attended the wedding by himself, Hammer insisted on stopping by his apartment before going to the reception. As soon as he was inside and alone, he scooped up Gun and gave the cylinder a quick spin. He had expected Gun to be happy to see him again, but instead of the normal cheery click, click, click, what he heard was withdrawn, almost moody, click … click … click. Hammer double checked the safety andresolved to keep Gun under homicide watch for the next few days. Then he tucked Gun into the split bull hide holster under his left arm, and headed downstairs to meet Doreau. Just having that familiar weight at his side made Hammer feel better. He was sure Gun would feel better, too, once the festivities started.

If Doreau was upset that he had gone back for Gun she said nothing. She had acted a bit strangely though. Usually independent in her thoughts and actions, tonight she'd _waited_ for him to hold her chair, and had asked, several times, for him to freshen her drink, even though it was perfectly obvious to Hammer that she was capable of doing both for herself. Still, his mother had raised him to be a gentleman, and so he had complied. After the party had broken up, along with several fellow several officers, they had drifted to the local bar. Somehow they found themselves in their familiar places, seated together. He remembered being concerned that too many root beers might impair his judgement.

* * *

><p><em>I must have been mixing my drinks,<em> he thought. _Root beer and milk have given me nightmares before. Like the one I'm having now._

Except this was no nightmare. OK, it was a nightmare, but not the dreamy sort. The taste of freshly chewed wood in his mouth and the solid tap, tap the pencil made against the top of his desk confirmed that this was reality and not reality TV. Given the absence of clues in the events he had reviewed so far, Hammer found himself with only one remaining possibility.

He remembered sitting at the bar, idly stirring his drink – milk, he was certain – alcohol clouded his judgement and he never drank coffee this late. He recalled Doreau saying something about Captain Trunk and the stag, but his mind was elsewhere.

He had been thinking about the conversation he had with Doreau in his apartment, about his earlier confession to Doreau; about Scott and Susan finding each other had made him aware of just how alone he was; about how he was actually afraid that he might spend the rest of his life alone.

_How could I open up like that? Especially to her. And why?_

The conversation haunted him. That last, backward glance over her shoulder before she had left haunted him. He remembered wondering if there was the possibility of something more. That haunted him, too. Her words seemed burned into his mind.

"Not if you don't want me to. Sledge, let me into your life."

Hammer tried to focus his memory on those few moments, trying to remember everything, hoping that somewhere in the details would be something he could use as an excuse. It wasn't easy. If _her_ words were burned into his mind, then _his_ words would probably haunt him forever.

_Face it, you're a haunted man,_ he thought wryly.

"Doreau, since I went to that wedding I've come to a … kind of a … realization. I've given this a lot of thought. I don't want to live my life alone. I want … a living, breathing human being to share my life. The good times and the bad. So ... ah … this isn't… ah … an easy thing for me to ask … so I'm just gonna go ahead and say it, … will you marry me?"

Yes, those were his words, although he couldn't remember why he had spoken them. Women were supposed get all sentimental and mushy over weddings, not men and certainly not Sledge Hammer! He remembered seeing Doreau react, her eyes growing wide with … what? Shock? Awe? Instead of her usual exaggerated eye roll, she just … stared … at him, as though trying to make up her mind. Just as it looked like she was getting ready to say something …

Gun spoke, for the first time since the incident in his apartment. Hammer found he could remember _this_ part clearly. It was strange how no one else seemed to hear Gun. Hammer heard the words, demanding his full attention, as clearly as if the voice had been inside his head.

"_Shouldn't you have asked me, first?"_ Gun hissed.

"No." He tried to keep his voice as low as possible, hoping that only Gun would hear his response.

"_Fine." _

Hammer had already turned his attention back to his partner. Patiently, he waited for her to respond. Instead of saying anything, Doreau just dropped her head onto the bar, cradling her head in her hands.

Now, safely behind his desk at the precinct, Hammer had time to consider her reaction again.

_What did __that__ mean? _Hammer thought. _Did I miss something? Did Doreau hear me talking to Gun?_

_Nah_. Doreau never hesitated to chide him for talking to Gun, and she had not mentioned it. She hadn't rolled her eyes in disbelief either. She had only dropped her head into her arms.

Gun, on the other hand, had definitely spoken. But the tone behind the words was unlike anything Hammer could remember being used before. Usually Gun offered him advice. Occasionally, Gun would be non-committal. This time Gun's tones carried a hint of something else – accusation? Jealousy? Hammer wasn't certain exactly what the tone meant, but he did not have a good feeling about it at all.

_What was the last thing Gun had said? "Fine"?_

Except it wasn't – obviously.

Hammer remembered the embarrassing silence that stretched between himself and Doreau. He remembered taking out his wallet and dropping a twenty on the bar to cover their drinks and tip. He was only partially aware that Doreau had picked up her purse, and started for the door without waiting for him. When he turned back, he saw her already at the door and, briefly, he worried about his partner. It was late, and a woman probably shouldn't be alone on the street he thought, even one as capable as she was. Felons sometimes travelled in packs. He hurried to catch up.

When he came out of the door and onto the street, he saw that she had already hailed a cab. Relieved of that concern and not wanting to embarrass himself further, he turned the other direction, looking for a little privacy. Pulling Gun from its place beneath his jacket, he tried to explain. That was when he discovered the real problem. Gun wasn't speaking to him.

Hammer pleaded. He begged. He didn't care who saw him, his attention was wholly focused on his silent partner. He even opened the emergency first aid kit he kept in a jacket pocket. He placed a drop of the specially scented oil he had obtained from a Hindu mystic on a Q-tip, waving it under Gun's muzzle. Nothing elicited any response. Gun might as well have been inanimate.

Hammer found that he was unable to return to his apartment, he didn't want Gun reminded of the conversation with Doreau, or their fight. He drove the streets of the city, his city, as aimlessly as one of its poorer homeless, and probably carless and gunless as well, denizens, seeking refuge from the thoughts that plagued him. He didn't find that refuge but the trail of destruction he left behind eventually led to the precinct offices. At least this was a place to get out of the chill that seemed to grow deeper as the night wore on.

Hammer felt like he'd been kicked in the ribs. From both sides. On the one side, it was pretty clear what Doreau had _not_ meant when she had said "You've got me". She was probably just confused by his logic. He could deal with that – in fact dealing with his feelings alone and in private was something he had plenty of experience with. On the other side he still had no idea what Gun meant, at all. And Gun wasn't offering any clues, only the same cold shoulder his ex-wife had always given him whenever he had won one of their arguments. Mentally, Hammer shrugged. It was a woman thing, something he was certain he would never …

Hammer's thought processes bore superficial similarities to his driving. Proceed straight ahead until something blocked your path. Then run into it. Maybe it would get out of your way. Hammer had the distinct impression that he had just run into something that wasn't going to get out of his way.

_It was a woman thing__ … Was it possible? Through all their years together had Gun been concealing the fact that it … she … was a __woman__?_

Until that moment, Hammer had not given a moment's thought to Gun's gender. Gun was Gun, and that was all that mattered in their relationship. "Don't ask, don't tell" had worked just fine for both of them – up until now. As he considered the matter further though, he realized that there had been subtle hints of a concealed truth. He began mentally checking off points that confirmed his conclusion.

Gun had always insisted on sleeping beside him in his, or was it _their_, bed?

Gun didn't like it if he went out alone.

Gun had seemed – _moody_ – after Doreau had implored him to attend his ex-wife's wedding. Even though _he_ had rejected the idea, Gun had argued with him afterwards until he had lost his temper. When Gun had told him "get out", the phrase was delivered in exactly the same tones his ex-wife had used to tell him everything was "fine".

"_Fine"._ That was also the very last word Gun had spoken to him. He'd almost missed it.

Hammer began to consider the possibility more seriously. He knew other men thought of their boats, and even their cars, as being female. Hurricanes, he remembered, had once been exclusively female. That was before some liberal peony in the weather office decided they could be male, too.

_Probably only a matter of time before someone decided they had a right to get married,_ he guessed, pushing that premise to the limit of rationality. _Come to think of it, I've already heard of some whirlwind romances._

Hammer flipped back through his notes as he considered these facts. There, beside the last words Gun had spoken, he had written the word "jealousy?" Hammer realized that if Gun was a woman, she was the most dangerous of her kind, a jealous one.

_But why,_ he asked himself, _would Gun be jealous?_

Panic filled Hammer. The horrifying truth about his actions that night had suddenly become completely apparent. If Gun was in fact, female, he had proposed to Doreau in front of her.

"_Shouldn't you have asked me, first?"_

Initially, Hammer had thought that Gun had meant Hammer should have asked for _advice_ before posing his question to Doreau. Now, in light of the mounting evidence, the statement took on another meaning.

_Gun wanted to get married! And I said "No"._

Hammer's heart was too busy pumping blood to sink, but his stomach apparently had some spare time and fulfilled the role in more than adequate fashion. Hammer glanced at his watch. 7:15. He was a bit surprised to note that Doreau had, so far, not arrived. He had the impression, even though he had never personally witnessed it, that Doreau was usually among the earliest arrivals. For just an instant, he actually hoped that she might not arrive today. He wasn't up to dealing with two emotional females this morning. Especially since, he now suspected, one of them might want him dead.

At that moment the elevator chimed its arrival again, and almost immediately Hammer recognized the familiar clicking of his high heels. Doreau was coming! Swiftly, he opened several of the files in front of him, using them to strategically cover the notes he had been making.

The clicking stopped. Hammer judged that Doreau had reached the entrance into the bullpen area, from where she would have a clear view of the desk they shared. He felt her eyes on him, searching, and kept his head down, pretending to be studying the case file. The moment stretched, as Hammer held his breath, suspense building inside him. Could she _really_ see right through him, as she had sometimes claimed? Hammer supressed the urge to shrug his shoulders. The incriminating evidence was on his desk, under the file folder, not on the back of his chair, so it didn't matter.

Still, his chest was beginning to burn when, thankfully, the clicking resumed, and she approached her side of the desk. He resisted the urge to look up. Some animal instinct warned him against meeting her eyes. The last thing he needed right now was those blue eyes, distracting him from the issues at hand. When her footsteps stopped again he was certain she had reached her desk. The sound of her chair being pulled back, of her purse being hung over the chair back and the rustle of her clothes as she sat down confirmed his assumption. Only then did he consider the fact that _she_ had not spoken either.

Although he often chided her for being "chatty", or "a gossip", or for her "nagging", the truth was her cheery, if irrelevant, "Good morning" had become a part of his daily routine. This morning everything seemed turned around somehow. Hammer started to say something and then bit back the words. What if she asked how his Gun was? What if she wanted to talk? About last night? _Now,_ if front of Gun? He didn't see how that would help to resolve the issue he had with Gun, and right now, that was his priority. It was, he decided, best for him to remain silent, and concentrate on his real problem. He was a cop! He could work without talking to his partner if he had to, but not without his gun.

He heard desk drawers opening across from him, and case files landing with deafening "whump" on the desktop. There was a pregnant pause and then the sound of a chair being moved. Doreau stood and her angry footsteps receded.

_What has her all wound up?_ He wondered, finding himself distracted from his task by her endless commotion.

The footsteps returned, still angry at something. More chair shuffling and then silence. Hammer hoped it would continue. It was hard enough to think without all the unnecessary fidgeting.

Other officers would soon start to filter in. Captain Trunk would arrive. One thing would lead to another and before you could say, "_Hammer_, get in my office, _right now_!" he would find himself out on the street with Doreau, expected to solve the city's social ills without the aid of his firearm.

Captain Trunk chose that moment to arrive. Hammer had no idea how, but he _knew_ Captain Trunk was in the doorway. The Captain seemed to always be keeping Hammer under close scrutiny, and Hammer had developed a sixth sense alerted him to when he was being watched. Usually. Okay, he admitted, _occasionally_.

On any other morning, he would have taken this opportunity to brief Captain Trunk on his latest theory of proactive policing. Some nerdy science type had discovered that there were actually thirteen astrological symbols, not the traditional twelve. Clearly, Hammer reasoned, anyone born under that thirteenth sign would lead a very unlucky life and sooner or later would be drawn into a criminal lifestyle to compensate. Hammer estimated that incarcerating all people born under the sign of OPHIUCHUS should reduce crime by 7.69%. Tempting as it was to bring Captain Trunk up to date on these developments, Hammer hesitated. Even if the Captain agreed, without cooperation from Gun how many arrests would he make today?

Just as Hammer decided against pursuing the issue further, he became aware that Trunk was moving again. The sound of his footsteps receded towards his office, and Hammer heard the door click shut. Hammer's thoughts returned to Gun.

_If Gun is female, how can I make up with her? _He wondered. Unfortunately, the only two examples he could recall were his ex-wife, now remarried and on her honeymoon, and Doreau, whom he was constantly pushing away. Neither instance offered him any inspiration. It was probably just as well. If Gun was jealous, asking _another_ woman to help him out would probably make the situation worse.

He was aware that Doreau still had not spoken a word to him, but decided he knew the reason. It made sense, after all – usually the first thing she would say in the morning was something teasing him about being late – again. Since he had arrived _before_ her this morning she was probably at a loss for words.

_Maybe she could help without saying a word!_

After all, he'd seen guys try to hit on his partner all the time. _What did they do to try to get her attention?_

_Peonies, _he thought. _The flowers or the guys? Both, _he decided. Thinking about it, Hammer realized that he didn't know if Gun even liked flowers. He was, however, pretty certain that Gun would not keep them watered, and that it would fall to him to look after them. And Hammer knew that he _loved_ looking after flowers.

_Almost as much as he loved pizza faced, yogurt eating punks_.

What if they could find some metrosexual guys to chase around the financial district after work? Now _that_ was the sort of activity that might get Gun's interest! For the first time all morning, Hammer smiled to himself. Finally he was making progress. And if it wasn't progress, at least it promised to make the evening entertaining.

_What other things do guys do for Doreau that might appeal to Gun_, he asked himself?

Doreau did have a weakness for cologne, he knew.

_Would Gun have a similar weakness, too? What fragrance,_ he mused, _would appeal to Gun?_

He was pretty sure he could narrow it down, but did Channel or Givenchy make _eau de cordite_? He'd check later, he thought. No point in making a scene by barging in before the store was even open.

Hammer suddenly realized that the office was now filled with other officers, all going about their morning duties. Which brought up another problem. While he needed, desperately, to find some way to penetrate the barrier of silence Gun had erected, he needed to do it without alerting the entire precinct to his predicament. He couldn't let any of them think that he had a problem. They all thought he was crazy for talking to his sidearm; they would definitely call in the Department shrink if he told them that Gun _wasn't_ talking to him any more. Hammer shivered, remembering the last time he'd been forced to visit the Department shrink, and then pushed the thought aside. He needed to do this quietly.

As Hammer continued to wrestle with his thoughts, he was unaware that two others were watching him, suspiciously. Unaware that two pairs of eyes watched him, surreptitiously; one pair from across the desk and one pair from Captain Trunk's office. Two sets of eyes watched; two different minds pondered the _same_ question.

_What is wrong with Hammer?_


	4. Chapter 4 - Prelude To A Crime Scene

Detective Doreau sat at her desk, wearily flipping through the pages of yet another case file. Although never a particularly exciting facet of her job, it was something that had to be done and she normally accepted it as such, without complaint. This morning it was just one more reason to be irked at her good for nothing "partner".

_How many_, she thought? _Five? Six?_

She cast a quick glance at the pile beside her and was discouraged to note that, in fact, this was just her third. She heaved a mental sigh and tried, once again, to focus on the page in front of her in what she hoped was the appearance of deep concentration. It was no use. She glanced up again, this time at the clock on the bullpen wall. 8:36:52 she noted, with an even heavier mental sigh. Time flies when you're having fun. She sank lower in her chair, losing her normally erect posture.

_It was all his fault!_

She tried to rekindle some of her earlier anger. That didn't work either. The tsunami of emotions that had flooded through her earlier had abated, leaving her high and dry and feeling thoroughly drained. Anger, despair, fear; all the primal emotions that had flooded her veins with adrenaline earlier had faded leaving behind cold, limp flotsam that felt like yesterday's sodden newspaper.

It didn't help that all the files in front of her seemed to all be rather ordinary purse snatchings. For an entire stack of such cases to have found their way to her desk could only mean one thing – budget cutbacks. The street cops usually dealt with these, mostly by just keeping their eyes open and nabbing the perpetrators when they repeated their offense – which they always did. Purse snatching just wasn't lucrative enough to have an early retirement plan. She and … _that officer at the next desk_ … normally only took cases like these when things were slow. Sure it was hard chasing fleet-footed scum suckers while dressed in the Granny costume Hammer insisted that she wear, but she had learned several new ways to use a cane so that she was able to maintain her fair share of the arrests. In spite of herself, her lips twitched into the beginnings of a smile. Sledge did have a way to add interest to the most boring cases they worked on together.

_Us? Together? Maybe it was time to start planning a career change?_

The adrenaline surge of anger might be gone, but her pain wasn't. Once again it threatened to well up inside her and come flooding out. She stabbed her pencil hard into the desk, breaking the point. She stared at the broken tip in annoyance and frustration; then stabbed it into the sharpener on her desk and spun he handle, grinding a pristine new point. The activity achieved her objective, distracting her attention from self-pity and turning it something more productive.

_Blame Hammer! It was __all__ his fault!_

Heaven knew _she_ had done her best. _She_ had arrived early, desperately hoping to draw a veil of normalcy over the morning; to sweep last night into a dark recess and close the door firmly, forever. It was unthinkable that on this, of all mornings, he would somehow manage to arrive first, but there he was at his desk when she arrived. Somewhere between the first steps she took towards her desk and reaching her destination the anger she felt at his latest betrayal turned to fear. Fear of what he _might_ say. Fear of what he might _not_ say. Fear of how she would react to whatever he said, or didn't say. Fear of her own fear …

_She_ had gone about her normal morning routine, doing everything … normally. After making a fresh pot of coffee and filling her cup, she had returned to her desk with new pad of notepaper and a new pencil, which she proceeded to sharpen to a perfect point. Blowing lightly at the tip, she had turned her attention to the case files stacked neatly on one side of her desk. Methodically, she had selected the file on top of the stack, opened it, and had begun reading, just as she would on any other normal morning. But as the minutes passed by, ever so slowly, and Hammer remained seated at his desk, unspeaking, unmoving, seemingly staring off into empty space, her detective instincts kicked in and with them came the first faint glimmering of curiosity. Gradually, as the minutes ticked away, she became more curious and her reading became a cover for another purpose – spying on Inspector Sledge Hammer.

For the most part that had turned out to be just as boring as the contents of the case files. Her furtive glances had gotten more frequent and perhaps just a little less furtive as the morning wore on and Hammer showed no sign of noticing, much less acknowledging, her presence. So, she happened to be looking right at him when it happened … he blinked.

Panic surge through her. Quickly, she dropped her eyes to the file in front of her, feeling her cheeks flush in embarrassment. He _must_ have noticed! She held her breath, fearing the worst. Seconds ticked by. A minute, and then more minutes, passed. Somewhere along the way she realized she had started breathing again. Still, she had finished reviewing two complete case files before she got the nerve to cast another glance Hammer's way. Only to discover … nothing at all. Hammer still appeared to be gazing off into the distance, not moving or speaking. She could almost believe that he had fallen into some deep trance, but something in his eyes betrayed him. There was still a smoldering intensity to his unfocused gaze – a warning that the wild eyed fanatic she come to know still lurked within.

So, weary as she was, Detective Doreau was still trying to concentrate on the case files on her desk. Her earlier moment of terror was still fresh in her mind. _That was a rookie mistake_, she berated herself. But, it was also a reminder that other eyes might be watching and that office rumors could start for the most innocent of reasons.

She reminded herself again that Hammer was also unpredictable. True, he didn't seem particularly observant this morning. True, he often failed to notice _anything_ that was not related to criminal activity. She still needed to be wary of Hammer's uncanny capacity for counter-intuitive leaps of illogic; connecting the most innocent and mundane activity with violations of the penal code and making it unsafe to assume that he was as oblivious as he appeared. She resolved to be more cautious and determined not to repeat her earlier lapse in caution.

_It would help_, she thought to herself, _if these cases were just a little more interesting. Instead, they all sounded just about the same._

She paused in her reading. _What did you expect?_ _How many ways are there to snatch a purse? Was there really a lot of room for originality in that field?_ She shrugged.

Surreptitiously, she stole another quick glance at Inspector Hammer. Still no change! Other than that one blink of his eyes Hammer seemed intent on not reading the file in front of him and not making notes the pad of paper before him – _my_ _missing pad_, she fumed. It was like watching a still life. Still. Very, _very_ still.

_Clearly, he was only pretending to be reading. He hasn't even noticed it's upside down. So, if he's not reading the file and not making notes, what is he doing? _

Curiosity nibbled at her. A part of her was wanted to know what, or who, could have put Sledge into this state. A part of her was afraid of the answer. A part of her told her that she already knew the answer. Another part of her just wanted to stand up, slap the file out of his hands and demand that he just grow up. How many parts do I have? She wondered. Doreau gathered all her parts and focused their attention, at least for the moment, on the open file on her desk.

Case files always followed the same general format. The top sheet on the left side held a case summary, completed by the Officer taking the victim's statement. Other official reports from the medical examiner or forensics would get filed beneath that summary, but for a case like this there were none. The summary was also sparse, listing the name, address and contact information for the victim; the location where the crime had occurred; the names and contact information for any witnesses; and a description of the item(s) taken and the approximate value. In this case, a purse. _Well, surprise_, she thought, _it is, after all a purse snatching._ Then she saw the value, and caught her breath. _$900!? This thief had taste._

She turned her attention to the right side of the file which contained the witness and victim statements. _This,_ she thought, _might at least be entertaining_. For the first time all morning, she was not disappointed.

According to the various witnesses, the suspect was between 5 feet 4 inches and 6 feet 2 inches in height and could be between 18 and 55 years of age. According to one, he was a heavy set Latino wearing a windbreaker and ski mask. Another described him as, "medium build, tanned Caucasian, wearing a dark hoodie" while according to a third witness she was looking for a "thin, black man wearing a winter parka with the hood up". Doreau frowned and checked the address of the third witness. _Of course, a tourist, vacationing from northern Canada! That explained it; anyone with a tan would look dark to them. The witnesses seemed to agree on only two points … the suspect was male and had fled on foot._

_Well, I've worked with less_, she mused as she made a few brief notes and set the file to one side. As she reached for the next file, Doreau found herself wondering if she was any more reliable than the witnesses she found so entertaining. Could she trust her own observations on Hammer, for instance? Or was she too close to be a reliable witness?

She flipped the file open but, instead of reading on, she let her mind consider a different question: What was _normal_ when it came to Sledge Hammer?

Well, for one thing, he could seldom sit still for even a few minutes. Hammer kept a selection of live munitions in his desk that he used to pass the time until a case came their way. His activities ranged from "Put the pin in the grenade", to lining up .50 calibre ammunition and knocking it over like dominos, to "spin the mortar round", a game he only played when Trunk made him choose between multiple suspects, rather than arresting everyone en masse.

_Normal_, for Hammer, was arriving at the precinct half an hour late, with some fanciful scheme for reducing criminal activity and a burning desire to share it with everyone unfortunate enough to cross his path. Ideas like tearing up the Interstate and replacing it with two lane gravel road, both to reduce speeding and to bring back the "good old days" when chain gangs spent the day "making little ones out big ones". Most of the officers in the precinct had learned not to engage Hammer in casual conversation but, since she was his partner, Doreau often found herself the target of Hammer's ramblings. Unless he encountered Captain Trunk first. Yet, this morning, Captain Trunk had walked right past Hammer's desk without Hammer saying a word.

At the thought of her superior her eyes flicked involuntarily in the direction of Trunk's office. An indistinct form moved on the other side of the nearly closed blinds. On the other side of the window, Trunk was pacing, she surmised. It was, she knew, his way of dealing with stress of the job. She had tried to teach him her deep breathing exercises but, for some reason, although he could inhale calmly, each time he exhaled, it came out as "HAAAMMMMEER!" and only increased his tension and blood pressure. He found the repetitive rhythms of his pacing calming in the same way that she found the rhythm of her breathing exercises relaxing. That he was pacing already was a clear indication that Captain Trunk was on edge this morning, too.

_Maybe this has nothing to do with me,_ she mused, feeling that somehow she had stumbled on a key fact. That train of thought derailed before anything could come of it, leaving her to once again contemplate the wreckage of her morning..

Hammer's _favorite_ activity, of course, involved cleaning and oiling his gun. Once he had his Amigo in pristine condition, he would load it carefully, spin the cylinder and then go through all the motions of a fast draw from his shoulder holster. Repeatedly, to the consternation of any fellow officers or civilians who might suddenly find themselves serving in the role of "target".

That gave her three clear examples of how Hammer's behaviour this morning was anything but normal; four if you added the fact that he was early today. In fact, as she thought about it, she realized that there was another example, too. _By now he should be badgering me about how "real" police should be outside making the streets safer, not inside studying case reports from other officers._

Although her reasoning left her confident that her assessment of Hammer was correct, Doreau felt that she was further than ever from understanding the cause of Hammer's behaviour. Strangely, the possibility that last night wasn't what was bothering him had done nothing to make her feel any better. In fact, it felt vaguely insulting if somehow last night _wasn't_ the issue.

Realizing that she had hit a dead end and that further speculation about Hammer without some additional facts would get her nowhere, Doreau once again turned her attention to the case file.

She frowned. Something was bothering her. She'd argued more than once with Sledge about whether it was attention to proper procedures or "gut instincts" that made a good cop. What she hadn't told him is that she, too, occasionally found herself trusting her instincts over procedure.

_Like right now. I'm missing something. What is it? What was I doing when this feeling started? Thinking about Hammer? Hammer doesn't own a purse. Hammer doesn't think any normal man …._

_NORMAL! I was thinking about what was normal for __Hammer__! Maybe I should be asking what was normal for a __purse snatcher__ …? The felon picks out a vulnerable target … waits for an opening … grabs the purse and runs. We usually find the purse dumped a couple of blocks away with any valuables missing. _

_With any __valuables__ missing …, _she repeated under her breath.

Suddenly feeling like a detective for the first time all morning, she retrieved the last file, flipped it open and re-read the summary to confirm her memory. Yes, the only item listed as missing was the purse! Mentally, she checked off a list of other things that should have been in the purse when it was stolen: cash, credit cards, keys, ID, perhaps a cell phone or iPod. Why were _none_ of those items listed?

Certain that she had discovered something crucial she turned to the other side of the folder and began flipping pages looking for one in particular – the victim's statement. Four lines in she found what she was looking for: "The thief dumped the contents of my purse on the ground and ran off".

Why steal a purse and immediately dump the contents? Thieves usually grabbed the cash, at least, before dumping everything else. But why would a thief target just the purse? Even it was expensive and high end, he would still have to sell it or fence it and cash still seemed the better option. It sounded almost like a prank, or maybe a sorority initiation stunt.

Doreau started making notes feverishly as different motives occurred to her. Perhaps a fetish of some sort? Or a distraction? She added that to her notes, and then paused. Was this a single incident, or were there more? If there were more, perhaps she could find a pattern. She forgot about Hammer as she spread the files across her desk and began reading them with a purpose firmly in mind.

* * *

><p>Most mornings, Captain Trunk dreaded hearing his office telephone ring. That first phone call of the day was pretty much like pouring several gallons of fresh blood into a shark tank, where the sharks all wore badge number 470 and answered to the name "Inspector Sledge Hammer". Hammer <em>always<em> wanted the first case of the day, and would do anything to make sure he got it. Once, and only once, Trunk had denied Hammer a case. His office was trashed, and his desk destroyed, in the ensuing mayhem. All in all, he had decided, it was generally better if Hammer wreaked havoc on the outside world rather than in Trunk's own personal space. At least outside the office there was the _possibility_ that the criminal element would be collateral damage.

This morning was different though. This morning Captain Trunk found himself willing the phone to ring. He needed an excuse to call Hammer and Doreau into his office. _If only it was just Hammer_, he thought, _I could make up any excuse and get away with it. But Doreau will see right through anything that transparent. Or would she? She was acting strangely this morning, too. _That thought was even more troubling.

It made no difference what Captain Trunk wanted, or needed. Each time he turned back towards his desk, his phone stubbornly refused to ring. The only thing that changed was the position of the hands on his clock. Tick by tick they slowly advanced, and Captain Trunk's impatience grew.

There was no point in trying to push the matter from his mind and work on anything else either. He had tried. He tried completing his quarterly performance review and found himself on the verge of demoting himself before coming to his senses. He then tried reading the latest department analysis for crime trends, but not even a stupefying statistical analysis of the types of trash being discarded by city litterbugs was able to numb his mind to the crisis he perceived outside his door. Eventually he gave up and returned to pacing. Movement somehow felt less useless than simply sitting still.

So, it was actually a relief when the phone on his desk finally rang. At the very least it should provide a welcome distraction from pacing and wondering. _Anything to take my mind off the crisis that had occupied him all morning, with no sign of resolution_, he thought. _At best … could he hope for a solution?_

Grabbing up the phone hastily, he listened with increasing interest as the voice on the other end relayed the initial details of an incident in his district. A fire, possibly arson; a ransacked shop, probably a robbery; and most interesting of all, a _body_, a potential homicide.

* * *

><p>Meanwhile, back in the bullpen, Hammer tensed, suddenly aware that his gut had said something. Somebody, somewhere, had just reported a murder, he was certain. That wasn't particularly interesting. Someone, somewhere, Hammer knew, was murdered about every minute. But the hairs on the back of his neck were also standing up, and the combination suggested that <em>this<em> one was nearby, and that was interesting.

Normally, he would have jumped to his feet and headed directly to Captain Trunk's office, calling to Doreau to forget the _paper_work, they had _police_ work.. Today, he hesitated. His earlier notes were still on his desk, hidden beneath the case files he had hurriedly scattered over them when he had heard Doreau's footsteps in the hall. He felt certain that his ruse of reading a case file had successfully kept her from noticing, so far. But who knew what might happen while he was away from his desk?

_What if Doreau took it on herself to tidy his desk while he was with Trunk? What if Daley decided to do some filing while he was out? He couldn't take the chance. Should he take them with him? No, too obvious. What then?_

_This is taking too long_, he decided. What if the Captain gives a nice juicy murder case to someone else? Gun might be cooped up in the precinct all day, and might slide even further into withdrawal. I need to do something now!

Making up his mind, Hammer did the one thing that he could think of; he pulled his desk drawer open, and began sweeping the papers from his desk top inside. It was a tight fit. Several boxes of magnum ammunition for Gun, his grenades, a mortar round and a selection of high calibre military ammo already occupied most of the available space. It took some creative cramming, but he finally succeeded in getting the desk drawer to close. With a sigh of relief he stood up and marched towards Trunk's office, taking out his sunglasses and putting them on as he did.

Doreau was aware of the change as soon as Hammer's body tensed, and was instantly alert herself. _Has he noticed me watching him? No, he was still clueless,_ she believed. She held her breath, wondering what to expect next. She was startled when Hammer opened his desk drawer. She sat frozen as he began sweeping files inside. Then, as he began cramming loose papers in as well, she suddenly realized that the case files had concealed _other_ papers. Papers covered in notes that Hammer had apparently made _before_ she had arrived.

_How long has he been here? _ She found herself wondering in shock. _What had he been working on? I'm supposed to be a __detective__; how could I miss something like this?_

Doreau was so occupied by her speculations that when Hammer suddenly stood up and headed for Trunk's office, she was totally unprepared. Quickly, she tried to slip her shoes on, but in her haste she kicked one, causing it to skitter away into the dark recess under the desk. Cursing under her breath, she pushed her chair back and knelt, searching frantically.

"There's no way I'm letting you out of my sight," she muttered to herself, as her hand finally found the object of her search.

"Dori, who are you talking to?" Officer Daley's voice sounded behind her.

Doreau started, bumping her head on the underside of her desk. She hadn't seen Daley approaching. Backing out from under her desk, she stood up, and faced her fellow officer's questioning gaze.

Out of the corner of her eye, Doreau caught sight of Hammer pushing open the door into Captain Trunk's office. If she was going to catch up with Hammer and Captain Trunk before the door closed, she had no time for explanations.

"No one," she mumbled, doing a half step, half hop as she struggled to pull her shoe on and follow Hammer at the same time. Finally succeeding, she raced toward Captain Trunk's office.

"It's OK Dori, I talk to my shoes, too," Officer Daley called after her.

Suddenly realizing that everyone in the bullpen was looking at _her_, Officer Daley returned to her office rounds with a self-conscious flush.

* * *

><p><em>Perfect,<em> Trunk thought, as he hung up the phone and headed to his office door! _A homicide; the perfect case to assign to Hammer and Doreau._ _Better still, a perfect excuse to call __both__ Hammer and Doreau into his office, where I can observe them both at close range._

He _almost_ made it.

As he reached for the door, it was suddenly flung open from the other side, striking him squarely in forehead. Trunk staggered, as Hammer pushed past him and into his office. Recovering slightly, rubbing his head and letting his gaze follow Hammer, he stepped into the now open doorway. His mouth opened.

"HAMM…"

His yell was cut off as Doreau collided with him. This time he fell to the floor.

_Who could possibly have run into me this time?_

"Sorry, Captain, I didn't see you there."

Doreau apologised immediately, flushing and offering her hand to assist Trunk from the floor. She had been intent on following Hammer, but still preoccupied with what she had seen as Hammer had cleared his desk before heading in the direction of Trunk's office. Now she was puzzled, preoccupied and embarrassed.

_Doreau?! What in the world was going on this morning?_

Warily, Captain Trunk picked himself up off the floor, ignoring Doreau's outstretched hand. His head throbbed, but he ignored it, too. Very deliberately, he closed the door to his office. He walked in silence back to his desk before turning to face both of them. From that vantage point, a point of authority he hoped, he let his gaze rest briefly on each of them in turn, all the while remaining perfectly silent.

On the surface, the room seemed fairly normal. Hammer occupied his usual position, closest to the door, and perhaps half a step farther away from Trunk's desk than was necessary. Hammer's position forced Doreau slightly to one side, and while she faced Trunk, she was turned slightly so that she could watch Hammer from the corner of eye. She waited expectantly, politely, for Trunk to begin.

_Doreau is definitely keeping a close eye on Hammer this morning. She must suspect something is wrong, too. What has she noticed and what was she looking for?_

_As for Hammer, who knew what he was looking at from behind those infernal sunglasses? I'll get to those later, _he decided_. For now, let Hammer think he could continue to hide._

Perhaps Doreau realized that Captain Trunk was assessing both of them, trying to evaluate their facial expressions and body language. Hammer suffered from no such awareness.

"Look, Captain, I can solve cases a lot faster if you don't make me guess where the body is …"

In spite of himself, Trunk knew his face registered surprise.

_How__ did Hammer know that a new homicide had just been called in? Maybe he has a bug on my telephone?_

Trunk resolved to have his office swept at the earliest opportunity. Meanwhile, he needed to focus on the case at hand, and on studying his two subordinates.

Captain Trunk decided to come straight to the point.

"I _just_ received a call from the San Francisco Fire Department."

Deliberately, he kept his voice low and even.

"Earlier this morning they were called to a location in the Hayes Street Shopping District. A warehouse attached to a clothing store at had been set on fire. Deliberately."

_Bor-ing. __That__ is why they call themselves the __Fire__ Department, they deal with fires, _Hammer thought to himself_. _

Hammer's mind drifted; considering the myriad fun things he and Gun could be doing at a _real_ crime scene, and wishing Trunk would get to the point.

_Blah blah blah (comma) blah blah (full stop)._ He heard. _Blah blah (semi colon) blah blah (full stop)._ He was pretty sure it was a semi colon. Hammer prided himself on his punctuation; on being particularly good with exclamation points. Of course Gun normally helped out, by providing extra emphasis. Trunk was continuing. _Blah blah blah HAMMER, ARE YOU LISTENING TO ANYTHING I'M SAYING?_

With those words, Hammer was brought back to the present, and gave his full attention to the florid face which was now approximately three inches in front of his own.

"Of course, sir. Every word, sir." Hammer responded.

He thought he heard a stifled snicker coming from Doreau's direction. He didn't have an opportunity to wonder about his partner's uncharacteristic lack of manners though. Captain Trunk had barely paused for breath before continuing.

Trunk also thought he heard a stifled sound from Doreau's direction and glanced her way. She had turned slightly, as if self-conscious at the prospect of being present as Trunk disciplined her partner.

"TAKE OFF THOSE STUPID SUNGLASSES, HAMMER!"

_Ah, Trunk is almost ready to get to the point_. Hammer thought, removing his sunglasses and blinking as his eyes adjusted to the suddenly too bright outer office light. _Daylight is way over-rated._

Trunk regarded Hammer the same way a dog regards another dog's bone. Looking for any sign of weakness, any opening he could use to his advantage. Even with the sunglasses off, Hammer remained inscrutable. _Maybe Doreau would be more revealing_, Trunk mused as he shifted position slightly in order to place her in his line of vision.

"Okay, Hammer, if you _were_ listening, what did I _just say_?"

"Uh … 'Take off those stupid sunglasses, Hammer.'

Trunk closed his eyes and covered them with one hand, determined not to let Hammer get the better of him.

"_Before_ that, Hammer! What did I say BEFORE I told you to _take off your sunglasses_?"

Hammer prided himself on having an i … ei … eid, well the kind of memory that never forgot anything. He knew he could relate the entire one sided conversation word for word.

"Blah blah blah, blah blah. Blah blah; blah blah. Blah blah HAMMER ARE YOU LISTENING TO ANYTHING I'M SAYING?"

Hammer repeated the entire one sided conversation, verbatim, including the nouns, adverbs and punctuation. He was certain he even had the emphasis correct. He was also certain that he heard Doreau snicker, again. _What is with __her__ this morning,_ he wondered? _Enough strangeness._

Doreau had heard the entire exchange between Captain Trunk and Hammer. She always felt a little uncomfortable at times like these and found herself looking away as if to distance herself from a conversation she felt should be private. Still, at this sort of volume, it was impossible to ignore them completely. Hammer's response to Trunk caused her to snort involuntarily and cast an incredulous glance their way.

Hammer was clearly even more distracted than usual. Hearing his response to the Captain's question she found herself pondering exactly how Hammer's mind processed conversation. _Did he listen to anything anyone said?_ _Did he hear anything __I__ had said last night? Or had he simply heard "blah, blah, blah" while his mind was off on some spelunking trip of its own?_

Trunk also heard Doreau's involuntary reaction, and was positioned to see her glance in Hammer's direction. He observed her surprised expression and saw it replaced by a more introspective look as if she was analysing a case.

Trunk had no time to consider that matter more fully; now that he had Hammer's attention, he was determined to keep it. He continued his briefing, circling Hammer as he did.

"As I was saying Hammer, after the fire was out the Fire Department found a man in the upstairs apartment."

"Finders, keepers, Captain. I have better things to do than babysit some sea urchin who doesn't have enough sense to leave a burning building." Hammer replied, hoping that was not the reason the Captain had called him in.

"HAMMER!" Trunk was growing exasperated. "The man _couldn't_ leave because he was _dead_. Of something other than natural causes, Hammer! Do you know what THAT means, Hammer?"

Trunk stopped circling, just behind Hammer's right ear. He realized he could no longer observe Doreau from this spot, but he wanted to get into Hammer's personal space; to get him off balance.

"Do you?"

Trunk barked the words, and noted with satisfaction that Hammer started visibly. Apparently he was getting through this time. He waited for Hammer to respond.

Hammer opened his mouth to respond, but then paused. It sounded like a trick question. Trunk had said the death was _not_ natural. That eliminated fire, stabbing, beating, poisoning and gunfire. It was _perfectly_ natural for people to die of those things.

"Aliens killed him?" Hammer questioned, genuinely puzzled.

"NO HAMMER!" Trunk could feel his temples starting to throb. Another migraine was coming, he knew it. Attempting to forestall the inevitable, Trunk took a deep breath and lowered his voice. "Aliens did not …"

It was Trunk's turn to pause. _Do I know the cause of death? Then how can I say for certain that it wasn't …?_

Trunk held his head with both hands. _How does this happen? Somehow Hammer has me questioning my own sanity._

THAT IS _NOT_ WHAT IT MEANS!" It means that this is a HOMICIDE …

_Simple words_, Trunk told himself, simple words, _two syllables at __most_ …

"This is a _murder_, Hammer!" Trunk concluded.

_Why did Captain Trunk always save the best for last?_ Hammer wondered. _If he'd just started with that information, Gun and I could be at the crime scene by now._

"Captain, you really should improve your communications skills. If you … you know … got straight to the point …"

"Let me see if I can communicate this," Captain trunk growled menacingly. "I need to assign _someone_ from this office to in-ves-ti-gate, Hammer. You do know what _investigate_ means, DON"T YOU HAMMER!" Trunk switched tactics. "Of course, if _you_ aren't _interested_ Hammer, I'll get Mayjoy or Daley to accompany Doreau …"

Trunk continued to address his remarks to Hammer, but his attention was actually on Doreau as he spoke. This was the point where she would normally come to her partner's assistance ...

_That__ got Hammer's attention_, he noted with satisfaction. He caught Doreau's sudden startled glance. _And hers as well if I'm not mistaken …_

"Captain, you know how I …" Hammer began, before Trunk interrupted.

He had expected Hammer's protest, and was prepared for it; in fact he could have cut him off even more quickly than he had. He had waited the extra moment to see how Doreau would react.

Now he definitely had something to think about. Not only had he startled her, too, but she had failed to come to Hammer's defense. Could it be that she was actually _considering_ the option?

_That__ isn't like __her__ at all._

"Hammer, I am _assigning_ you _and_ Doreau to _this_ case. That means that I want _the two of you_ to get over to 380 Gough Street and find out _how_ this man was murdered; _who_ murdered him; and gather _evidence_ so we can arrest the scum _suck_…, the _perpetrator_. DO YOU THINK YOU CAN DO THAT HAMMER?"

Hammer was used to Captain Trunk's tirades. He had become adept at leaving just enough soap and water from the morning shower in his ears to diminish the volume ofTrunk's vocal histrionics to a bearable level. Having missed his morning shower, however, he was also missing the usual attenuation this technique provided. Everything Trunk said sounded just plain loud, making it difficult to determine exactly when Captain Trunk's tirade had reached its climax. He was starting to understand why the captain had so many headaches, in fact, he thought he could feel the beginnings of one himself. However, as the pause became more pregnant, it seemed to invite a response. He took a chance. Short, simple answers seemed best when the Captain was in this particular mood.

"Uh, yes Captain." He remained motionless, in case the Captain had something more to add.

"Then get out of here and get to work, Hammer!" Trunk dismissed the Inspector.

Hammer needed no further encouragement to be on his way. Doreau, on the other hand still seemed lost in thought.

"DOREAU!" Captain Trunk spoke sharply, in a tone usually reserved for Hammer. Seeing her jump and look up, clearly startled, Trunk felt a twinge of remorse.

"Is there something on your mind, Detective?" He asked in a more conversational tone.

"Uh …" She glanced around, a startled expression appearing as she realized she was now alone with Trunk, in his office. "Yes, sir …", she continued, clearly at something of a loss. "I mean, no, sir," she corrected herself, as if Trunk's question was just registering. She started to back out of the office, then turned and bolted, as Trunk watched, his concern rising exponentially with each passing second.

* * *

><p>Doreau headed for her desk in the bullpen area in a state of near panic. For the second … third? … forth? …time that morning she wanted to kick herself.<p>

_What was I thinking? Had Captain Trunk noticed …? Of course he had. What would he think? How much does he know? Was he serious?_

New questions assailed her. The prospect of being assigned to a new partner was just starting to register. _Sure_, she had wondered about her partnership with Hammer. _Yes_, the idea of exploring her options had crossed her mind this morning. She hadn't seriously expected that it would happen, at least not so soon. She was totally unprepared when Captain Trunk had actually suggested …

On top of her confusion, her ears were still ringing. She had not been prepared for the sheer volume in Captain Trunk's tirade. She was, of course, used to their superior's shouts of frustration but today the Captain had outdone himself.

_Something_, she thought, _has him wound up even tighter than usual. He hadn't even spoken to Hammer before that moment, and Hammer had barely said anything at all._

_Had Hammer found a way of getting to Trunk before they even met this morning? _

"_Oooo, ooo; ooo ooo. Ooo oo;. ooo ooo." Her mind chanted at her. "You didn't believe in paranormal phenomena when Hammer thought he could kill with his thoughts, so why are you thinking that way now?" _

She dismissed the thought as worthy only of science fiction drama. The challenge with Hammer was usually to keep him quiet enough to focus on his job rather than chasing off after some insane crime fighting scheme. Usually, when he had a particularly "good" idea, like waterboarding babies in a Pavlovian attempt to condition them against future criminal career choices, he couldn't wait to share it with everyone. Usually, the more insane the scheme, the harder it was to prevent him from sharing it in detail, no matter how disinterested his fellow officers tried to appear. Hammer was clearly acting strangely this morning. His silence this morning was definitely out of the ordinary, and she found it disturbing. Trunk probably did, too. That would explain the extra volume as well as the questions. The Captain was simply trying to shake Hammer out of whatever funk has him so preoccupied.

_So why is he taking it out on me?_

For a moment, it felt as though her world spun. She paused to consider the thought.

_Maybe I'm being too sensitive; taking it too personally, _she reasoned.

_Liar!_ The voice inside her head accused her. _You've been just as distracted as Hammer. You didn't even notice when Trunk finished talking and dismissed you both. Do you think Captain Trunk didn't notice that, too? Do you think he's not wondering why?_

She shook her head again, determined not to drawn into another vortex. _It doesn't matter what they think; either of them, _she thought fiercely_. I need to be professional about this. I really need to move on. Starting with this case_.

Doreau reached her desk. She turned her computer off and reached for her jacket. Pulling it on quickly, she left the buttons undone and reached for her purse. As she slung it over her shoulder she turned.

_Where was Hammer?_

* * *

><p>Hammer had come to the precinct earlier to be alone, to consider his problem with Gun in solitude. Somehow, reviewing the past days and making notes on events that might be significant, he had lost track of time. The hours had passed quickly; much more quickly than he had realized. His fellow officers had started to trickle, and then flood in. Before he knew it, the precinct was filled with people, including Detective LeNez … er, Doreau.<p>

Feeling their prying eyes on him every moment, Hammer felt more and more like a caged animal. As the minutes stretched out, tension bubbled inside him, with no outlet. If he started to pace, Doreau would know that something was bothering him, and would start asking annoying questions. His desk was too covered in paperwork to play with his grenades; no one knew better than he did the difficulty of searching for a grenade pin in a stack of paperwork. He considered firing Gun into the ceiling, but found himself paralyzed by performance anxiety. What if Gun _didn't_ fire? In front of Doreau?

So, Hammer had sat nearly motionless, hoping to go unnoticed, for most of the morning. Until, finally, Trunk's phone had rung. Hammer had made sure that he was first in line for the case, not actually caring what it was as long as it provided a reason to get outside. It had taken what seemed like forever to pry the details out of Trunk, but now he had an address and a murder to investigate. He was actually excited, and certain that Gun would share his enthusiasm. So, once outside of Captain Trunk's office he made a b-line for the elevators. He couldn't wait to get out of the precinct, away from prying eyes, and he was determined to let nothing delay him_. _ He was so happy he had to supress the urge to whistle.

_Whistle? I never whistle_, he scoffed as he instinctively made his way down the corridor, turning right and then right again into the elevator lobby. Absently, automatically, his extended finger stabbed the "down" button, causing it to light.

As Hammer waited for the elevator to arrive, he was was planning how to approach the crime scene to achieve maximum excitement for Gun. He had several options, he decided. He could charge in, with Gun leading the way. Gun sometimes enjoyed being on top of the action. But, there was something to be said for anticipation; keeping Gun in the dark, inside his jacket, while he let the excitement build slowly, slowly, before finally whipping Gun out for the climactic moment of release. Sometimes Hammer even liked to pretend that he was a naïve young detective; that he was unaware of what was going on, letting himself get drawn deeper and deeper into danger until, at the last possible instant, Gun could come to his rescue.

"Hey, Hammer, you want this elevator, or the next one?"

Mayjoy's voice brought Hammer abruptly into the present. The "ding" of the arriving elevator must have been camouflaged by the ringing in his ears.

"Enough sarcasm," he mumbled, trying to cover his distraction as he entered the elevator car, pressing the ground floor button. Only as the doors began to close did he realize something was missing.

_Where is Doreau_? He thought. _Trunk told us to get over to the crime scene, and while he hadn't specifically said to take the elevator, this is the way we always go._

* * *

><p>Doreau bolted for the corridor.<p>

_Was it possible that she had missed hearing his normal, perfunctory, 'Come on, Doreau'_? _Her ears __were__ still ringing … how long ago … how far ahead is he?_

Doreau had barely started down the corridor when she heard the "ding" of the elevator arriving, and knew she was too far away to catch up.

_I don't even remember the address of the crime scene_, she suddenly realized.

Desperately, she pushed open the door into the stairwell and quickly slipped her shoes off.

_This should be faster than waiting for another elevator,_ she thought, starting down two at a time. She mentally kicked herself for getting distracted.

_Why wasn't I paying attention in Trunk's office? Why did I let Hammer out of sight? Why am I blaming myself? _

_Why didn't __he__ wait for me? He must have noticed that I'm not with him. Of course he has. I should have expected this. He didn't want a partner; he especially didn't want me. He's been ignoring me all morning. Now he has an opportunity to ditch me and work this case on his own. _

Doreau's mind spun as she began to circle her way down the stairwell. Fortunately, she was in excellent shape. Thanks to her martial arts exercises, she was also remarkably agile. And right now she was motivated.

_Men, and their stupid egos. You either had to kiss it better for them, or they kissed you goodbye. Clearly, after last night he really doesn't care whether I come along or not_. _He never really wanted me along, anyway. I'm not taking it anymore! As soon as this case is over …_

It was only three flights to the ground. The stairwell opened directly to the outside, because of fire code requirements, letting her bypass the lobby, so she should easily beat him to the street. It didn't answer any of her questions, but the exertion cleared her mind, and she felt better …

She reached the bottom, and slipped her shoes back on, reflecting that the concrete had not been kind to her nylons at all. She'd need to replace them, but that would have to wait until later. She pushed the door open and stepped outside.

Inwardly she still seethed. For two years she had put up with his chauvinistic, self-centred misogynistic attitude. She even thought she had seen him change. Clearly it was all wishful thinking. He hadn't changed; he wouldn't change; he _couldn't_ change.

She looked up and down the street for Hammer's car. The dented, scraped, shot up silhouette was usually easy to spot.

_Where could it be? Ah-ha! There it was, on the __far__ side of the street._ _Odd … the cars in front and behind appeared undamaged._

Smiling grimly to herself as she crossed the street against traffic, she felt a surge of exhilaration at her victory and thought that new nylons would be a small price to pay. Quickly she approached the passenger side of the car, saying a silent prayer. She didn't think she'd ever seen Hammer lock his car, but nothing about him seemed to fit with her expectations any more.

_It was unlocked!_ She realized she had been holding her breath, and now let it go with a sigh of relief. Then she opened the door, and quickly slid inside, chancing a quick glance at the building entrance as she did so. _Still no sign of … __him__._ Deliberately she started placing "him" in a generic category of "other" men no longer in her life. After the way he had abandoned her upstairs she was no longer certain he thought of her as his partner, and she was determined to take nothing for granted. She focused her gaze straight ahead, and waited. Whatever game Hammer was playing, she was determined to out think, out play and out last anything he could come throw at her. _She_ was determined to survive.

* * *

><p>With still no sign of his partner, Hammer reached instinctively to block the closing doors. Desperate as he was to get away from the precinct and resume his efforts to reconnect with Gun, he already had enough problems without giving Doreau something to nag him about.<p>

_What __was__ the matter with her this morning? Not only is she giving me the silent treatment, she was snickering in Trunk's office, and now she is pulling a vanishing act right after being assigned a new case._ _She __always__ sticks close to me when we get a new assignment; almost as though she was afraid I'd bolt for the car, leaving her behind._

Casting a quick glance outside, Hammer failed to see her anywhere. Mayjoy was starting to look at him like a _suspect_. He shrugged.

_Who knew what went on in a woman's mind? If only they thought more like men, then they wouldn't be so difficult to understand. Well, I don't have time for games now; Captain Trunk made it clear he wanted me at the crime scene immediately. _

_Where ever she has vanished to, it isn't my problem,_ he decided. _I need to find a way to revive Gun, and that isn't going to happen while I stand around waiting in an empty elevator. If we solve a homicide in the process, and get the Captain off my case as a result, that was a bonus._

He removed his hand from the door, letting it close just as the warning beeps began. He reached for Gun, his first instinct being to silence the mechanical annoyance. Then he remembered the look on Captain Trunk's face earlier, and reconsidered.

As he rode the car down alone, Hammer fumed at his partner's lack of sensitivity this morning.

_She's__ the one always nagging me about being more sensitive. Why_ _couldn't she take her own advice and cut me a little slack? Can't she see I have __important__ things on my mind?_ _How could a __partner__ miss seeing that?_

He wasn't sure. He wasn't even sure why he was wasting time wondering about Doreau when clearly his real problem was with Gun. The best chance he could see of setting things right between them was to treat Gun to something special, soon. The elevator arrived at its destination, and the doors opened.

Hammer scanned the lobby for any sign of Doreau. Nothing.

_Where had she gone?_

He fidgeted nervously, checking his watch repeatedly as another elevator, and then another arrived. Precious seconds were slipping away.

_This is taking so long that Norman will have the case solved before I get there. _

At that thought, Hammer's mind was made up. _Crime waits for no woman, and neither do I, _he thought, spinning on his heel and heading for the exit.

As he stepped into the street, Inspector Hammer instinctively scanned the street for any sign of crimes in progress. Opportunity lurked everywhere, he knew, and he knew better than to look a stolen horse in the mouth. The thief could be escaping while you practiced equine dentistry.

The street was clear, but Hammer was astonished to see that _someone_ was seated in _his_ car.

_What scum faced, pizza sucking sea urchin pollutes the seats in __my__ car? _

Ordinarily, a simple misdemeanor arrest right outside headquarters would have made Hammer drool. Minimal paperwork and he wouldn't even have to give the meandering miscreant a free ride downtown. Today he was in a hurry though and didn't want to waste any more time. Still, he couldn't let the obvious trespassing infraction go unpunished. Deciding that there was only one time efficient course of action, he pulled his magnum and took quick strides toward the vehicle. He would wound the reckless wrongdoer and leave him at the curb for later pickup. Maybe, he reflected, Doreau could take care of him whenever she got around to coming outside. At least her entire morning wouldn't be totally wasted.

Then recognition hit him, and he froze. Checking that no one had noticed, he slipped his gun back inside his jacket, and tried to appear calm and nonchalant as he walked to the driver's door. He knew that hair; he knew that erect posture; he knew that profile. He'd ridden with her for the last two years, every day, how could he not know? Without a doubt, Detective Dori Doreau was already in the car, waiting for him.

_How did she get here so fast? Did I black out or something? _He wondered. _Could this problem with Gun be affecting my expert observational skills? Na, no way, I'm impervious to that sort of thing …_

Still, it was one more reason to find a solution as quickly as possible, preferably before Trunk started to question his abilities. He had no time to be concerned with Doreau's silence, or prestidigitations. In one quick motion he entered the car, started it, and without even a glance over his shoulder, pulled into traffic, to the blare of offended horns.

The drive to their destination took twelve and a half minutes. Neither of them spoke a word the entire time. _Both_ of them _knew_ why the _othe_r wasn't talking.


	5. Chapter 5 - His Story of Them

_**Chapter 5 – His Story Of Them**_

Captain Trunk turned back towards his desk. The message light on his phone flashed, and his overflowing in-basket beckoned with unfinished paperwork. The morning, he reflected, has not exactly been filled with accomplishments. Even his coffee cup was so far untouched.

Deciding that it was unlikely that anyone would notice if the paperwork waited a few more minutes, Trunk picked up his coffee mug. Dealing with Hammer had left his throat feeling dry and scratchy. What he needed was a nice soothing drink. Bourbon, preferably, although he'd settle for decaf if he had to.

As the Captain strode out of his office and into the bullpen area he was just in time to see Doreau switch her computer off. She pulled her jacket on, leaving the buttons undone and slung her purse over her shoulder. Only after she turned did she notice what Trunk had known with his first glance; Hammer was gone and she was alone. An expression of anger and determination crossed her face as she spun and raced toward the hallway.

Trunk simply shook his head in disbelief and continued toward the coffee station.

_This looks more and more like a lover's spat, _he conceded. _Judging from the expression on her face, I hope Hammer doesn't become the city's next homicide victim. I'm already short staffed thanks to budget cuts._

Reaching the coffee station, he began carefully filling his cup, while letting his eyes casually scan the room. Already, it was obvious that the tension level was falling. There was a rising buzz of conversation as officers began milling about, talking in small groups. Officer Daley breezed past with a cheerful "Good morning, Captain" and a stack of fresh arrest warrants in her hands, which she began to distribute to the Detectives. The office routine was apparently returning to normal.

_Yeah_, Trunk thought to himself, _this__ is more like it. This is what a smoothly functioning department looks like! I hope it lasts …_

With a satisfied nod, Trunk continued his scan, his eyes eventually coming to rest on the station shared by Hammer and Doreau. Meticulously, he added exactly half a teaspoon of sugar and two creamers and then began carefully stirring the steaming liquid, his expression thoughtful. Doreau had left in a hurry, leaving the files she had been working on still open on her desk. Curious, he strolled over to her desk to see what he could discover.

Pausing, being careful not to disturb anything, he considered the items in front of him. Case files, all apparently purse snatchings. The reason for these particular cases to have caught her attention was not immediately obvious. Doreau must have suspected that they were linked in some way. Certainly something in the way they were arranged suggested method, not madness.

_Good police work_, he noted, without seeing anything that offered any insight into either her behaviour, or Hammer's. _Hammer …_

Hammer's desk, on the other hand, spoke clearly of madness. Less than ten minutes earlier its surface had been completely covered in case files and other papers. Now it was completely bare. Trunk pinched himself, and winced at the pain, slopping a bit of coffee over the rim of his cup. So, _not_ a dream then. He looked closer. He decided to risk a closer look.

Warily, Trunk crossed over to the other side of the station, to the space normally occupied by Inspector Hammer. Trying to appear casual, he placed his feet carefully and maintained what he hoped would be a safe distance. Rumors about Hammer abounded; that he shot first and asked questions never; that he literally dragged confessions out of suspects. The rumor Trunk had foremost in mind at this moment involved booby traps.

Everyone knew it was risky just being around Hammer. No one, ever, risked touching any of Hammer's stuff. His apartment, his desk, his locker, his car … no one was certain how wide Hammer's security net was spread. Well, probably not to his car. Hammer frequently used his car to transport suspects downtown. It would be too easy for one of them to inadvertently trigger something. Trunk couldn't even be sure about the apartment, locker or desk, but Doreau had once told him that Hammer had warned her not to drop by without phoning ahead. If Doreau believed, that was good enough for Captain Trunk. He would observe, but from a safe distance.

The top of Hammer's desk had been cleared completely, as if nothing had ever been there. Bending low and sighting parallel to the desk, Trunk was able to confirm that the surface had been disturbed. Faint trails were visible in the dust specks, all terminating over the drawer on the left side of Hammer's desk. A slip of paper poked out from the edge of the top drawer, he noted.

_It is all in there. All I need to do is open that drawer. OK, that's __really__ insane_.

He turned and walked back to his office. There were too many people, too many potential casualties, in here. He would get his answers some other way. And, if that didn't work, he resolved to call the bomb squad to open the drawer.

Setting his cup down on the corner of his desk, Captain Trunk began a circuit of his office, pausing at each window to open the blinds slightly. Other than when he needed them closed for privacy, he preferred them open so that he could observe the office outside.

Captain Trunk had made it a point to know every officer under his command personally. He knew whose marriage was on the rocks, whose kids did well at school and who had a big anniversary coming. He knew their quirks and their idiosyncrasies. He had the normal day to day interactions that every supervisor had with those under his direction. He listened to their opinions, offered praise where it was warranted, and disciplined them when it was required. But early in his career he had learned there was a difference between _hearing_ about what people were doing, and actually _observing_ them while they were doing it. Trunk needed a sense of their mood, of how they functioned as a team.

Scientists say that it is impossible to observe anything without having an effect on whatever, or in this case, whomever, you are observing. Certainly, Trunk knew, that applied to people. And, when people sensed their supervisors taking an interest in their activities they often became nervous, or cautious, or both. Nervous people made mistakes, and in this line of work when people made mistakes, lives could hang in the balance. Cautious people might not make as many mistakes, but they didn't do their best either. He didn't even want to think about nervous, cautious people. If he wanted to keep abreast of the surprising ingenuity of those who lived on the other side of the law, what he needed was to have them all at their best, which in turn meant he needed them neither nervous nor cautious. He needed them, as Goldilocks had put it, 'just right'.

To know what he needed to know Trunk had to observe, but without being observed. To accomplish this he had patiently developed a routine, an entirely normal routine which everyone in the office was now used to, which gave him both the means and opportunity to take careful stock of his charges and their mood. Picking up his coffee once again, he started to pace.

Everyone out there _thought_ they understood. To a man – and woman if you included Doreau and Daley – they all _thought_ that they knew why their Captain paced. Ask any one of them, and he was quite certain what the answer would be. One word: "Hammer"; perhaps as many as three words, "Inspector Sledge Hammer", if you were to ask the more loquacious among them.

Captain Trunk was fine with that. More than just fine; he had in fact encouraged, even cultivated, the notion that Hammer was his nemesis. The notion was so universally accepted that no one questioned that idea anymore and so, naturally, none of them realized that his methodical, structured path back and forth had another purpose beyond simply providing a release for his nervous tension. That it also brought each and every one of them under his unwavering gaze had escaped their notice.

Trunk smiled to himself.

_How surprised would they be if they knew that I spend more time watching them than I do watching Hammer? How surprised would they be if they knew that Hammer was more than the never ending source of frustration that he appeared to be? Much more. He was, in fact, also a work in progress._

He speculated as he continued his pacing.

_Why had it not occurred to any of them that I have alternatives? That, if I was as upset with Hammer as the constant tirades implied, I could assign him to different duties; I could transfer him to another department or to another precinct. Hell, I could fire the man if I really wanted him gone._

The answer to that was startlingly obvious, to Captain Trunk anyway.

_He had Inspector Hammer right where he wanted him._

Briefly, he wondered if he should be concerned.

_Should it bother me that, in an entire department of "investigators", not one, not even Detective Dori Doreau, had reasoned this out? That not one of them has the slightest inkling the sham he had constructed?_

He shrugged, continuing his pacing. Again, the answer was obvious to him. The situation was his creation, after all. Mentally cautioning himself against overconfidence, he recalled how he had carefully manipulated circumstances and events to achieve the current state of affairs.

Captain Sledge Hammer had once been a highly decorated officer in the Governor's elite CHP protective detail. He held a special commendation for rescuing the Governor, who had been kidnapped by Canadian petro-terrorists intent on drowning him in the Le Brea Tar Pits. Only Hammer's quick actions and the fact that the tar in the Le Brea Tar Pits was actually thicker than the Canadian tar sands in January had saved the Governor's life.

But, Hammer had become cynical and disillusioned with what he saw as the Governor's soft stance on crime. The final straw had apparently been the Governor's support of a bill to allow some inmates early parole simply because they were old. So, rather than take a bullet meant for the Governor, Hammer had actually stepped to one side, and let the Governor take it himself.

During the subsequent official investigation into his actions, Hammer had first ranted that "183 year sentences make no sense if the Governor lets prisoners retire at 55"; then had complained that the $47,000 _average_ cost per inmate obviously meant that some criminals were making more than some cops; and finally had openly mused that the Governor was a "backsliding political hack on step 45 of a 12 step program."

The Governor had immediately called a bedside press conference to deny that he had never touched a drop of alcohol, and that the only time in his entire life when he had been drunk, it was on love. An observant reporter had noted the scarlet flush this comment brought to the cheeks of the young, attractive, and very female staff member who had been hovering at his bedside and had quickly put 68 and 17 together and turned them into a page 1 story.

The resulting ramifications were far reaching: the Governor recovered from his wound and went on to win another term in office; the Governor's wife publically forgave him, but subsequently moved to Washington and took a job in foreign affairs; the assistant got a lucrative book deal; and Hammer was busted to the rank of Inspector and reassigned to the rank and file of the SFPD.

It was these events that first brought Inspector Sledge Hammer to the attention of Captain Trunk. Hammer's actions had roused Trunk's curiosity and soon afterward Trunk had found himself reading Hammer's personnel file cover to cover. He was the first to undertake such a task he was sure, and was still probably the _only_ one, to actually accomplish that feat. In comparison, War and Peace was light reading, although both appeared to share some content. If there was a rule, Hammer had broken it, probably twice, just to check for consistency. If there was a limit, Hammer stretched it, seldom stopping before it broke. _Then_ there was his driving …

Now, at every opportunity Trunk added to the volume of that file, freely, copiously, with the objective of making certain that no one else would even be _tempted_ to read it – _ever. _

Captain Trunk was satisfied that it had been worth every minute spent picking through every piece of paper, every report, every reprimand, every notation by previous superiors or the department shrink. Sure, Hammer's _actions_ were still just as incomprehensible as ever, but his _motives_ were another matter entirely. When he was done reading, Trunk understood Hammer's motives like no one before him, and like no one after him ever would.

Captain Trunk understood how a man who had been forced to arrest his own partner; to testify against him at the internal hearing and again at his formal trial; to see his partner reduced to the same level as the yogurt eating, ragweed punks they'd made sport of incarcerating; and then to see him sentenced to serve hard time in jail among those same _scumsuckers_; might have some aversion to working with _any_ partner again.

He understood how the man whose wife, his childhood sweetheart, had ripped the heart from his chest when she left him for some hippie in the Peace Corps, might develop a lifelong distrust of hippies. As well as being reluctant to ever let any woman back into his life.

Trunk realized, too, that someone like Hammer, while reluctant to let anyone into his life again, would still feel protective of a female officer, in spite of himself. And, he realized that Hammer would deny that fact to everyone, including himself.

He actually understood, in a primal sort of way, why the only constant left in Hammer's life, the only thing he felt he could truly depend on, had come to be the .44 magnum that never left his side.

_Understood? God help me, there were times when I could actually __sympathize__ with Hammer. _

At those times he had to remind himself that there was a line between understanding and condoning. A line that must never be crossed. But, _using_ Hammer didn't cross _that_ line. Captain Trunk had been certain that he could put Hammer's special … _qualities_ … to good use, but the question remained: 'How?'

Trunk realized that someone with Hammer's background in the high risk CHP protective detail could easily find hunting down ordinary street criminals mundane in comparison. He realized that someone like Hammer would always have to be close to the edge. Letting him remain close, without going over, would be an impossible challenge for anyone. It was easier to let him go and let others pick through the wreckage in his wake.

Captain Trunk drained the last of coffee from the mug and set the empty cup down on his desk. Then, he sat down in his chair and leaned back to _just_ the right spot. Briefly, he surveyed the bullpen again. The area was now a swarm of activity; detectives took statements, read Miranda rights, escorted suspects to and from interrogation; everywhere he looked pulsed with energy. Except for one place; a vacant space where two empty desks faced each other; a reminder of an unresolved issue that could bring this well-oiled machine to a halt, if he couldn't resolved it.

_Strange isn't it,_ he mused_, that everyone out there thinks I'm the long suffering victim of Hammer's lack of discipline. _

Trunk reminded himself that he was, in fact, Hammer's long suffering victim. Just because he was using Hammer, didn't mean he wasn't also a victim of the man's lack of discipline. Indeed, Captain Trunk's volatile dealings with Inspector Hammer were Department legend. His rants, and Hammer's subsequent stints on suspension, were as much a part of police life at this precinct as coffee and donuts. Or granola bars in Hammer's case. No one gave any of it a second thought. Perhaps if they had they would have realized the real mystery, the one everyone somehow failed to see, was why Hammer ever got _off_ suspension.

If Hammer was an unpredictable menace _inside_ these walls, Trunk knew he was Strike Force Delta against the criminal element that existed _outside_ them. His techniques were unconventional, he didn't bother with warrants, and he ignored criminal's protestations of "rights". Sure, as a result a lot of Hammer's arrests never stood up in court. _That wasn't the point, was it?_ The point was that the criminal element generally feared Hammer. They feared the unexpected. They feared being paraded downtown like a Rose Bowl float on Hammer's hood. They feared the publicity, generally. But, it was Hammer's formal party invitations they feared most; always "Come as you are" and with a "Run If You Dare" card replacing the usual RSVP. That sort of fear, striking deep into the heart of be blackest felon's heart, was Hammer's true usefulness. _Fear lead to nervousness, and nervous people made mistakes,_ Trunk noted, for the second time that morning. _Bad news when it's __my__ people, but good news when it's __other__ people._ His other officers took full advantage of those mistakes. And, on rare occasions, Hammer actually _solved_ a crime _himself_. _As a result, this Division, __his__ Division_, he thought proudly, _had the highest case clearance rate of any Division in the city._

_Yes,_ _Hammer was useful in many ways, _he sighed. _It wasn't Hammer's lack of usefulness that made him a liability; in fact it was the collateral damage that resulted from the unbridled enthusiasm that he brought to his every task_. _Like a teenager, _Trunk thought_, Hammer was impetuous rather than malicious. What he needed was a positive influence. _

He sighed again, turning his chair away from his desk and his view of the bustling activity inside the bullpen. He regarded the sky outside his window. It was clear, blue, and peaceful. _The truth is, I need Hammer_, he acknowledged. In fact, in some ways, Hammer was the easy part …

Detective Dori Doreau had posed an entirely different challenge. Captain Trunk became aware of her at about the same time that Hammer had come to his notice. For reasons that Doreau had chosen to keep to herself, she had resigned her civilian job and applied to the San Francisco Police Department. Captain Trunk had seen her resume. Some of the details had been redacted, but he saw that her background included practical experience in domestic and international terrorism, hostage negotiations, forensic psychology, computer analysis, counterterrorism and defensive tactics. He was mildly surprised that she had given all this up for police work. He was _not_ surprised to learn that her application had immediately been routed to the Department's elite anti-terrorism squad, where, unfortunately for Captain Trunk, it had also been immediately accepted. There, because of her background and experience, she had bypassed the cadet training phase and was granted immediate placement with the rank of Detective. The pencil pushers upstairs weren't _all_ idiots, apparently. Someone must have recognized her talent, and seen beyond the fact that she was a woman. Or, perhaps they really were idiots hadn't seen beyond the good looking woman and had failed to recognize her other talents. However it had happened, she had ended up beyond Captain Trunk's reach.

Like Hammer, Doreau had quickly become something of a rising star. Unlike Hammer, her record was exemplary. Her file consisted of one spotless page of personal information, and a dozen more pages of honours, awards and citations for her excellence unmarked by so much as a coffee stain. Where Inspector Hammer had been an officer wanted only by Don Philip Sousa, who wanted him _dead_; Detective Doreau, it seemed, was wanted by everyone. Alive, and with good reason.

She was a skilled marksman. Not just on paper, but in the field and on the range. This was something Trunk had experienced first-hand. In their one encounter on the pistol range, only Hammer and the Captain himself had beaten her score.

_She very nearly bested me last year,_ he remembered. _ She matched my accuracy, and took only a half second longer to complete the course._ _Maybe next time she would think to change out of her high heels before starting the test._

Trunk hoped not. For at least two reasons, only one of which had to do with maintaining his number two ranking.

Her skills were not limited to the range, either. Although she was coy about revealing the origins of her martial arts skills, she used them effectively in hand to hand combat, consistently besting her fellow officers in spite of the disadvantage conferred by her weight and stature. She might look soft and feminine, but every officer in the Division by now knew better than to mistake her looks for weakness. She had even volunteered to take on Inspector Hammer, a challenge that had, so far, not lead to an actual meeting. That had not stopped speculation from running wild on the outcome of such a match. Even Trunk had a wager in that office pool.

Given the opportunity, she had proven herself adept as well at unravelling the threads of criminal activity. The Captain sighed wistfully. _If all my officers had her skills, I might not need Hammer, _he speculated._ Well, the world wasn't perfect, was it?_

In addition to her obvious skills, Detective Dori Doreau came with two les obvious problems. The first was her idealism. Determined to prove herself in a male dominated profession, she was the consummate professional. She asked for no special treatment, seeking only to be accepted as an equal by her fellow officers. She would tolerate no hint of favoritism from anyone, not her partner and _especially_ not from superior, Captain Trunk. _Well, nothing worthwhile was ever easy …_

The second problem she posed was … well … face it, she was _extraordinarily_ good looking. Boys will be boys, Captain Trunk knew, and, given half a chance, men will be boys, too. Usually, _teenage_ boys. A glance that lingered a trifle longer than necessary; a casual remark in the locker room; a prank with just a subtle hint of innuendo; Captain Trunk had seen and heard it all. Tolerable, perhaps, as teasing by fellow officers; it was totally unacceptable from a partner. Combined that with long hours and late nights and you had a recipe for internal affairs and failed marriages, unless Doreau ended his advances by turning his junk into _actual_ junk.

Captain Trunk had considered these problems carefully and at considerable length. Department policy _required_ that all officers with field duties have a partner. Inspector Hammer's past experiences made finding a suitable partner for him difficult. Based on what he knew of Hammer's nature, Trunk had expected that he would object, in the strongest possible terms, to _any_ partner Trunk proposed. Since keeping Hammer on desk duty was clearly out of the question, Trunk needed to find _someone_ willing to be Hammer's partner, preferably someone who didn't know, or didn't care, about his reputation_._ Detective Doreau needed a partner who, ideally, wouldn't care or better yet, even notice, that she was good looking. If there was just some way to get the two them together …

Eventually he had come up with a plan. It was an audacious, even insane, idea that went against all common sense. The audacious part of his plan was imagining that _any_ plan could cope with Hammer. The insane part was that Captain Trunk's plan required having Hammer partner with a _woman_. Common sense said the plan was doomed to fail. But Trunk also knew Hammer and, from what he had seen of Doreau, he thought his plan might work, just the same. First, he had to get them transferred …

Hammer, the man no one wanted, was easy. A stainless steel age Neanderthal; a caveman with access to modern firearms. Like his ancestors on the African savannah, Hammer lived to hunt; unlike his ancestors who hunted gazelles and gnus, Hammer was less particular, hunting anything that moved, from murders and bank robbers to jaywalkers and litter bugs. For Trunk, getting Hammer assigned to his unit was as simple as _not_ objecting to the transfer. Phase One, complete …

Detective Doreau's transfer had been more challenging. Careful planning had not been enough; it had required a healthy dose of good luck. He still recalled the day fortune had taken pity on him and smiled. The kidnapping of the Mayor's daughter had come at the opportune time for Captain Trunk.

_Could I have arranged her reassignment, even temporarily, for a case of lesser importance? Probably not,_ he admitted.

As Trunk had expected, Hammer protested. Since his divorce, Hammer had kept _all _women at arm's length. More precisely, he'd kept them at arm plus _Magnum_ distance. And Hammer, being in law enforcement, had long arms.

_A woman partner? Pfft, as Hammer often put it. _

Hammer had said as much, to the Chief's face. Individually, Captain Trunk had doubted that any_one_ would have been able to coerce Hammer into partnering with a female Detective, but against their collective insistence his resistance had been futile. With the Mayor requesting that Inspector Hammer be assigned to the case; with the Chief himself enlisting Detective Doreau's skills and had _suggesting_ that the two of them work the case together and with Captain Trunk standing his ground … Well, maybe 'standing' wasn't exactly the right word, but it had worked. Reluctantly, Hammer had given in to their demands.

Captain Trunk could hardly believe his good fortune. At a single stroke, not only was Doreau working for him, but Trunk's vision of a perfect partnership became a reality. Phase two _and_ Phase three, completed. All that was left was to keep it together.

For two years Captain Trunk had succeeded. In fact he had succeeded beyond his wildest dreams. If he thought about it really hard, he could vaguely remember a time when he had, briefly, felt guilty for leaving Doreau paired with Hammer. But that time was far in the past, and the guilty pangs had never returned. In fact, something odder had happened.

Something about the Inspector seemed to fascinate, or perhaps challenge, Dori Doreau. Far from being put off by Hammer's seeming indifference, she had come to bask in the infrequent instances when he voiced his approval. A simple 'Thank you' had once left her glowing with pleasure for hours. And, although a perfunctory 'Good masculine thinking, Doreau, was probably as close as she would ever come to an actual compliment, apparently she was content to focus on the positive. If the glass wasn't half full, at least it wasn't totally empty. For some reason, that was enough, and she had never questioned the fact that she had not been returned to the counter terrorism unit. Perhaps she found her new assignment more challenging.

While she kept trying to prove herself; trying to gain his approval, Hammer kept pushing her away. The result was an almost comical situation where they stayed together, without ever actually getting together. Oil and water, he thought. As long as the oil kept _trying_ to mix with the water, or in this case, as long as Doreau kept trying to prove herself to her partner, who was the most inflexible dinosaur in the entire force, Captain Trunk's plan would continue to be successful. In Doreau, Trunk had found the one person on the force that could bring some semblance of balance to Hammer's personal version of fighting crime – without getting shot in the process. And, in Hammer, he had perhaps the only person who could spend every day working at her side without any personal involvement.

Trunk supposed that it was ironic that his most misogynistic officer was also his most egalitarian, at least in Doreau's eyes. In Hammer, she had seemingly found the one man for whom her femininity was irrelevant - who would treat her _exactly_ as if she was one of the guys: expendable. Trunk had occasionally wondered if even Hammer could really be so completely oblivious to the fact that Doreau was a woman. Still, Hammer regularly ignored most facts, and there was probably no reason why that particular fact should be different from the rest.

Other officers, from time to time, had taken Hammer's disinterest as license to approach Doreau as a woman, and not as a fellow officer. Not one to encourage their advances, but not wanting to accuse them of harassment either, Doreau had found a third option. Somehow, each of them had found themselves facing her over the sparring mat in the basement training area. As far as Trunk knew, no one had ever asked for a rematch.

In time it seemed everything had settled into a more or less happy equilibrium. In virtually every way that mattered, Detective Doreau managed to prove herself to every officer on the force, and to Captain Trunk. The lone exception remained her partner, Inspector Sledge Hammer. Although he regarded Doreau's methods with some scepticism, Hammer appeared at least willing to accept their partnership as a working arrangement. Oddly, Hammer remained the only officer Doreau had never met in hand to hand sparring.

Today though, something had changed. That much was clear from his morning observations. Somehow, the fragile truce that had been maintained for two years had been disrupted. Neither Hammer nor Doreau were behaving normally, although admittedly in Hammer's case the definition of normal was always somewhat elusive. The cause of this change was, Captain Trunk was certain, likely to be even more elusive. Hammer would never admit to anyone that _he_ might have a problem and, where their partnership was concerned, Doreau could be equally reticent. Failure to solve that mystery and correct the problem would, he was certain, bring all of his careful planning and manipulation, and two years of crime fighting successes to an ignominious end.

Captain Trunk leaned back to stare at the ceiling. As his vision focused on the blank white surface he counted six, no seven, freshly repaired bullet holes and momentarily his resolve wavered.

_Maybe it would be easier to just … NO! I will not knuckle under to that knucklehead. Besides, what are my options? Retirement on a police pension?_

As he wracked his brain trying to come up with some clue as to where to even begin his mind suddenly flashed back to an earlier thought. He picked up his telephone and began dialing a fellow Captain from the Traffic Division. His call was answered on the first ring.

"Hello Edmond. I'll bet you are calling me about a little meeting your Inspector Hammer had with one of my officers last night."

Captain Trunk was taken aback. Clearly, his call had been expected. The truly surprising part was that the voice on the line did not sound angry. Instead, he sounded amused. _Very_ amused.

Almost every cop in the entire division was familiar with Hammer's vehicle. Many had encountered it more than once on their patrols. For the officer who had encountered him last night, it had been his first time. It was an experience would remain with the young man forever, indeed, it was already well on its way to becoming Department legend. Bit by bit, between uncontrolled paroxysms of laughter, Captain Trunk managed to extract the details of that encounter.

Sometime after midnight, while patrolling on the graveyard shift, an hysterical young woman had run into the street, directly in front of the rookie officer's patrol car. He had barely managed to stop in time. His own nerves shaken at the near miss, he got out of the car with the intention of calming the lady down and getting a statement from her. All he had managed to understand was the word 'Pervert'. Then his eyes were drawn in the direction the woman was pointing, where he made out the figure of a large man holding a large silver gun. A man who seemed genuinely puzzled at all the commotion.

Inspector Hammer had, for once in his life, actually cooperated. He had identified himself immediately and had even produced his SFPD badge as proof of his identity. Still, the enthusiastic officer was determined to conduct a thorough and meticulous investigation of the complaint, and to ensure that no detail was overlooked. After verifying that Inspector Hammer's badge was authentic he went on to confirm that his carry permit was current. He ran Hammer's driver's license, his insurance, and the vehicle registration before conducting a cursory vehicle safety inspection. He then made the Inspector _wait_, while he took the lady's statement, which consisted largely of claiming that she ran a legitimate business from the back alley, was not in the business of gratifying some pervert looking to get a hot oil massage for his gun. _Of course_ _the big silver one_.

After verifying that no actual crime had been committed the young officer had released both the lady and Hammer from custody, but not before giving the Inspector a stern warning about overdue parking tickets and the importance of proper tire inflation. By this point in the story the laughter on the other end of the line was continuous and, if Trunk was not mistaken, there were several others in the background who were also enjoying the story.

Captain Trunk hung up the phone and sat, considering what he had heard carefully. One thing was certain; if Hammer had been out cruising the streets, clearly he and Doreau could _not_ have spent the night together. That was something to be thankful for, since it meant he didn't have to reassign either of them. Not yet at least. Of course that fact alone did not preclude an earlier argument with Doreau. He still _might_ have offended her and she _could_ have thrown him out. That had certainly happened before and each time they had managed to work things out and continue working together. Maybe, if this was one of those cases, like the others it would eventually blow over.

The thought gave Captain Trunk a faint glimmer of hope. But, after his years of experience with Hammer he knew the wisdom of planning for the worst, and hoping that nothing even _worse_ happened. He was determined to keep digging for other possibilities.

The part of the story that Trunk found easiest to accept was that Hammer had sought out someone to give his gun a hot oil massage. Hammer's fondness for his massive magnum was well known. He knew of a previous occasion when Hammer had set his own apartment on fire while trying to convert a mini-fryer and some gun oil into the equivalent of a hot tub for his sidearm. He also knew that Hammer had previously purchased Christmas and birthday presents for his firearm. There was a rumor that Hammer had come to the church alone; perhaps his gun had felt left out during all the wedding festivities ….

_Damn, that sounds just crazy enough to be one of Hammer's ideas. But while it might explain why he was out late at night, it did not explain why he continued to act strangely this morning, and it certainly didn't offer any explanation of Doreau's behaviour. Unless … Trunk was remembering a time when Hammer's amigo had gone missing … unless Doreau was acting distracted because she, too, was aware that something was wrong with Hammer. If that is true, then I'm only looking for a problem with Hammer._

Captain Trunk was, of course, thankful that Hammer had not resorted to gunplay with the young officer. Thankful, but puzzled, since Hammer usually saw gunplay as the shortest distance between any two points. Perhaps Hammer felt a connection with the diligent young officer, or perhaps Trunk's own tirades on use of firearms against fellow officers had finally sunk in.

Trunk snorted._ He was kidding himself if he believed that anything he said ever sank in with Hammer. More than likely, the fact Hammer hadn't used his cannon as his first resort in problem resolution was one more indication of the seriousness of the situation he now faced. At least it might be a hint as to __when__ the problem had begun, though._

Captain Trunk began to feel like he was making some progress. Although he was no closer to a solution, at least he had some ideas he could pursue further when Hammer and Doreau returned to the precinct_._

_If I can just keep enough pressure on both of them to solve their current case, maybe they will reveal something more to me. If I can find just one little piece, perhaps the rest of the puzzle would fall into place. _

Captain Trunk sighed. His message light was still flashing and his inbox still held several reports requiring his signature. There was no point in continuing to put off the inevitable. Hammer and Doreau would have to wait.

_It was, after all, darkest just before the dawn._ Captain Trunk snorted again. _That might be true in other jurisdictions_, he thought, _but around here it was always darkest just before Hammer went home. _He checked his watch._ That left six hours forty-two and a half minutes._

Captain Trunk opened his desk drawer. He unscrewed the cap from one of the bottles inside shook a couple of Anacin tablets into his hand.

_Preventive medicine, _he thought_, _as he picked up his coffee cup and headed back to the coffee machine for something to help wash the tablets down._ The worst is yet to come. I can feel it … right … there._


	6. Chapter 6 - Bend, Fold, and Spindle

Speeding down Market Street, Hammer realized he had a problem. Gough Street was one way and unfortunately that way was the wrong way from his point of view. While he routinely ignored trivial details of that sort, in heavier traffic the presence of a police car, even one with flashing lights, a siren and a sign declaring ".44 Magnum on board" would simply bring oncoming traffic to a complete standstill long before he could negotiate five blocks. If he didn't want to end up walking, he'd better take Franklin. Hammer cranked the steering wheel hard, keeping his foot down solidly on the accelerator.

Through it all, Doreau marvelled at the alacrity with which other motorists avoided seemingly inevitable collisions. Clearly, there were advantages to an older model automobile with dents and bullet holes that at least partially made up for the lack of comfort. She braced herself and tried to hold on. The St Regis leaned into the turn, tires screeching. All the oncoming motorists could do was brake, and honk impotently, as he swerved across two oncoming lanes and raced northbound.

_200 block; 300 block_; Hammer counted down the addresses and again cranked the wheel, this time onto west bound Hayes. Gough was just one block over, and if he was right, 380 should be right on the coroner er, corner.

Bearing down on the intersection Hammer was alert for two things – Norman's van and a parking spot. Simultaneously, he found both; the large white vehicle with "Coroner" on the side and right beside it a space that he was reasonably certain would be just wide enough – although it might be a little tight on Doreau's side. Maybe this time she would wait in the car.

Hammer took his foot off the accelerator, moving it to the brake and once again depressing the pedal all the way to the floor. _I really should get that fixed someday._

As the car veered towards the curb, Doreau closed her eyes and instinctively braced herself for the inevitable collision that was Hammer's version of a controlled stop. It didn't happen. Tentatively, she opened one eye and confirmed that the vehicle was no longer moving, before releasing her grip on the dash and pinching herself, very deliberately, in a sensitive location. Only after feeling a confirming stab of pain did she accept that she was not dreaming. Oddly, the fact that Inspector Hammer had, for once, actually parked his car without striking any stationary objects, left her feeling even _more_ certain that _something_ was seriously wrong. She had no time to consider the situation further, however. Hammer already had his door open and was sliding out of his seat. She released her seatbelt and attempted to open her door, determined not to let him out of her sight again. Her door thumped against Norman's van, revealing only a three inch gap. In spite of herself, she marvelled that Hammer had missed such a substantial target. Then, closing her door quickly, she slid sideways towards the space just vacated by her erstwhile partner. She was just in time to have _that_ door slammed in her face.

_How typically inconsiderate! _She fumed, pulling the handle and opening the door herself, and exiting. _Enough humiliation, _she thought, as she slammed the door herself in frustration. A wasted gesture as it turned out; her partner had already disappeared inside, completely unaware of her mood. Tempting as it was to storm after him, Doreau took a deep breath instead.

_There is no point_, she decided, _in letting him get under my skin. What could I possibly do this morning that I haven't tried before, always without success?_ _I might as well concede that even the attempt is futile, unless I want to end up like Captain Trunk_.

Deciding that, in this instance, Captain Trunk was poor role model, Doreau took a moment to orient herself. Glancing around she realized that she was standing on a pleasant tree lined street, fronted by an eclectic mix of two and three story buildings. At ground level they formed an assortment of shop fronts. From where she stood she could make out a coffee shop, a furniture shop, a deli and at least one restaurant. The upper floors appeared to be residences, or perhaps office space. Doreau took out her notebook and added a reminder to have uniformed officers canvass the area in case anyone had noticed something out of the ordinary earlier in the morning.

Continuing her study she noted that one end of the street was a public parking lot, while a rectangular brick square surrounded by well-manicured lawn and several benches marked a park at the other end. A portion of the street around her had been taped off with the familiar yellow "Police Line – Do Not Cross" tape. Two loose ends of tape lay coiled in the street, parted by the abrupt passage of Hammer's car.

_So, he hadn`t missed everything after all_.

Other nearby spaces were occupied by various emergency response vehicles, including the Coroner's van and one Fire Department vehicle that still remained on the scene.

_Probably an arson investigator, _she decided.

Most passers-by, she noted, were simply stepping around the taped off area and continuing about their business. A few, perhaps more idle, or perhaps simply curious, had gathered along the sidewalk, pressed up against the tape.

_Rubbernecking,_ she thought as she scanned their faces. _If one of them was the guilty party, returned to watch the investigators, or gaining some vicarious enjoyment from watching others try to figure out what had occurred, then none of them showed it outwardly._ _All that she could see in these faces was idle curiosity._ Doreau sighed. _If Sledge was here, he'd say they all looked guilty; it's only a matter of figuring out why. Although his method was, on the surface, no better than hers when it came to picking one suspect out of the crowd, more than once his steely gaze had caused someone to bolt. No one in this crowd looked ready to reveal themselves that easily. _

She turned to face the building that was the focus of everyone's attention. The brick faced structure appeared to be some sort of fashion boutique, from the clothing and accessories on display in the front window. The sign out front, "Luigi's Fashions – Vincent Luigi, prop.", appeared to confirm her assessment. Briefly she wondered at the seemingly uninspired store name.

_Either it's the owner's name, or all the good ones really are taken_, she decided.

She stepped closer to the window, to examine the display more closely. On closer inspection, she realized that, like the store name, the merchandise also appeared unexciting.

_This is definitely not one of the trendier shops in the city_. _From the cut and color, the items on display were probably last fall's selections, perhaps even older. A consignment store or perhaps a bargain outlet?_ F_rom what I can see, it appears to be good quality though. Just the sort of place that might attract someone looking for quality without an insane price. Like a police officer on a budget. I wonder if they have anything in my size._

The sudden "_CRACK_" of Hammer's magnum being discharged reminded her that she was still on duty and that Hammer had entered the building several minutes ahead of her. She drew her service revolver and pulled the door open.

As she stepped inside she found herself in an area that had obviously served as a display and sales area. The display racks that had once been neatly filled with various items of fashionable apparel had been stripped, pushed aside, and in some cases, overturned. A few loose garments littered the floor, but otherwise the racks were empty. It was obvious that the store had been thoroughly ransacked. A damp, somewhat acrid smell hung in the air. There was no sign of her partner.

A face momentarily appeared behind the sales counter, and then quickly ducked back out of sight. Doreau pointed her service revolver at the area where she had last seen the figure, and spoke from instinct.

"Police!" Her voice was sharp, deepening slightly in tone as she sought to convey her authority. "Show me your hands – _now!"_

The man behind the counter stood slowly, revealing himself to be a uniformed police officer. He appeared visibly shaken, she saw. His hands, raised to shoulder level, palms forward, trembled perceptibly. Instinctively, Detective Doreau flashed her badge towards the startled officer, who swallowed hard, and then found his voice.

"He went up there! He's armed and …," the officer swallowed hard, again, "… dangerous. I've called for backup." He added the last comment as a helpful afterthought.

_Yes, clearly Hammer had come this way._ She sighed.

"Relax", she tried to reassure the officer, as she put away her own revolver. "That's my partner, Inspector Sledge Hammer. We're here to investigate the murder."

Hands still raised, the officer's face assumed an astonished expression. "_That_ man was a _police Inspector_?" He asked incredulously. "He's one of _us_? Are you _certain_?"

Doreau's lips twitched as she fought the urge to smile. As Inspector Hammer's partner she thought was used to unusual reactions to Hammer and his sidearm. Even so, this one was new. She stepped over to the counter and reached around the cash register. Triggering the mechanism, she sprang the till drawer open. Bills reposed neatly in each of the compartments, probably the cash float ready for a new day of business.

"Doesn't look like a robbery", she mused absently.

"Aren't … aren't you going to check out that gunshot?" The officer stammered.

"_Maybe you should investigate. He is your partner. It __was__ a gunshot …. "_

"It was only one shot," she responded replacing her service revolver in its holster, unsure whose question she was answering. Seeing the officer's puzzled look, she continued, "He gets a little trigger happy sometimes."

"_A __little__ trigger happy? We are talking about the man who used half a box of ammunition trying unclog a drain in the men`s room, right?"_

_Look, no one else fired first, and no one else returned fire. He's fine._

"_You're only worried about __him__. __I'm__ worried about everyone else. Wait … you __are__ worried about him …"_

_Pffft!_

I understand there was also a fire?" She let the words hang as a question, trying to ignore her inner thoughts.

"_Are you changing the subject now …?"_

"I'm trying to investigate a murd …" Doreau blurted out before realizing she had spoken out loud and choked off the rest of her response. The young officer was openly staring at her now.

"Who are you talking to, Detective?"

"Look … Ah … No one …," she felt her face flush. "The fire …?" She prompted again.

"Yeah, sure. Right through there." The officer's expression was sceptical, but he nodded his head indicating a second door, bearing a sign "Employees Only" that evidently lead into the back. "There's a Fire Department Arson Investigator back there, too."

As Doreau stepped towards the back of the shop, the officer remained frozen behind the counter. Doreau paused. He appeared to be inexperienced, perhaps even a rookie on his own for the first time. "Maybe you should cancel that call for backup," she suggested, trying to be gentle. "And you can put your hands down now." Flushing with renewed embarrassment, the officer quickly keyed his shoulder mike.

Without waiting to hear what the man said next, Doreau turned away to consider her options. She had seen Hammer enter the shop and assumed that he would make a b-line for the coroner.

_He must be upstairs with Norman Blates and the victim,_ she reasoned, to herself. _I guess I'll start with the fire in back_, she decided.

"_Taking the easy way out?"_ Her conscience chided her.

_A dead body isn't going anywhere_, she responded, trying to sound reasonable. _We can cover the scene faster if we each look at separate areas. Besides, we can always compare notes back at the precinct. Why am I justifying myself to myself? _She wondered, as she reached for door number two.

Before she could complete the motion, a Fire Department Officer pushed his way through, furiously scribbling notes as he strode towards the exit. Head down, he didn't see Detective Doreau and the two of them collided, scattering papers and his clipboard across the floor.

"Where's the fire, Officer?"

* * *

><p>As Inspector Hammer bolted from the car, he had only one thought on his mind: finding the crime scene and finding Norman and finding a clue and then finding the killer and taking him down and solving the case and getting back together with Gun. OK, it was a run on thought but it was still one thought. Hammer drew his magnum from beneath his jacket.<p>

"Look," he whispered, "Norman's already here. That means we won't have to waste time trying to question the victim; we can just question Norman."

Hammer was hoping he would find _something_ inside that would capture Gun's interest. He needed a solution _quickly_. The first 24 hours were the most critical. Hammer knew that if you don't get them back in that time, often you never will. He also knew that Gun and the Coroner, Norman Blates, shared several interests, dead bodies and wound tracks being at the top of the list. Finding Norman as soon as possible was at the top of _both_ of their lists. He dashed through the door, not bothering to call out a warning, or even to identify himself as a police officer.

To the uniformed officer who had been standing inside, Inspector Hammer's unannounced entry was nothing short of traumatic. At over six feet, Hammer was an imposing figure, even without the oversized silver sidearm in his fist. The wild look in his haggard, sleepless eyes as he peered over his sunglasses and the grizzled, day old beard did nothing to assuage the officer's sense of unease. The officer declined to ask questions, and simply dove for cover behind the sales counter.

"Typical", Hammer whispered holding Gun up for a clearer view of the area. "Whenever you need help in one of these shops, all the salesmen dive for cover. Well, we don't have time to look for the "Complaints" department, do we? Door number one or door number two? Say, this feels just like the game show – except there was no door number three."

"_Unless you count the door we just came in through. __That__ door would be number three." _

"Don't confuse me."

_Wait! Who said that? Had Gun actually spoken?_

Hammer forced himself to concentrate.

_Try to act normally! Eenie, meenie, miney, moe. Door number one it was._

Having reached a snap decision, Hammer strode purposefully through the doorway and took the stairs one at a time. He was in a hurry, but he held his breath and let Gun lead the way.

Now, if Doreau would just hurry up, the three of them could get to work. Just like old times.

_What was holding her up __this__ time? Maybe she has discovered a way to warp the space/time continuum so she can get upstairs 13 steps ahead of me? In any case, there was no point in arriving at the crime scene winded. _

Reaching the top of the stairs Hammer was forced to acknowledge the obvious – Doreau had not perfected teleportation. Gun had not spoken again. He was on his own. As he paused to consider his next move, he began to scan the area, evaluating the scene for potential risks.

The second storey appeared to be a combination living quarters and office. At the top of the stairs, almost directly in front of him, was a table with what appeared to be fabric samples strewn haphazardly across it and spilling onto the floor. Evidently the shop owner was someone who took his work home with him at night and preferred a short commute.

_Who takes work home with them? _Hammer wondered_. Police officers and writers! Hopefully it wasn't a writer,_ Hammer thought. _Television networks killed writers all the time and no one even batted an eye. A murdered police officer was much more likely to capture Gun's attention. Plus, everyone would just want the perpetrator caught and no one would care if the methods used were a bit … unconventional._

"_Why would a police officer bring home fabric swatches?" _

Gun? Speaking again? Perhaps even ready to take an interest in events again?

"Could someone be counterfeiting corduroy?" Hammer responded, trying to be open minded. Once again, his response was met with silence. _Did I imagine it?_ He wondered.

Turning his attention to his left, Inspector Hammer observed a compact kitchen, not unlike the one in his own apartment. The stove and counter top looked unused, but several boxes from a take-out restaurant were heaped on the kitchen table. Several people had apparently been here recently. Either that, or the guy ate the same thing every night and never bothered taking out the trash, it was hard to be certain which. If there was a bedroom and bathroom, they were probably down the hallway at the far end of the room. An open window on the outside wall, with a fan pulling fresh air into the room completed the picture. Aside from the odor of stale Chinese food and fresh smoke, both of which were now beginning to fade, there were no obvious threats.

"Maybe I should do the talking," he commented absently, preparing to re-holster Gun.

"Is somebody there?"

At the sound of another voice coming from somewhere behind him, Hammer spun, crouching, balancing lightly on the balls of his feet, with Gun held in front of him, ready for action. He found himself facing an armed individual who had somehow remained hidden during his initial inspection of the room. As Hammer assessed the situation, the figure stared back, silently. Hammer had the queasy feeling he seen his assailant before. Something about this man's expressionless expression left him with a cold shiver running down his spine. Even with his sunglasses on, Hammer felt the stare boring right through to his visual cortex.

_Enough procrastination_, he thought, as he pulled the trigger.

Gun responded with an enthusiastic "BOOM", and suddenly the room was filled with flying glass shards. Hammer was ecstatic; with Gun, words and actions were equally loud.

"Who are you shooting at, Inspector?

The monotone voice came from _further_ to his right, Hammer realized. Removing his sunglasses and turning his head slowly, he caught sight of a thin face raised just high enough to peer at him from the other side of an office desk.

_This__ is clearly the Coroner, Norman Blates,_ he thought, belatedly realizing that it was Norman who had spoken both times. _What is he doing hiding behind that desk, and who did I see …? _

Hammer glanced back, and realized his attention had been drawn by a reflection in a full length mirror – he had been looking at himself he now realized. He tore his gaze from the jagged remnants of the mirror, to look down the stairs. _If Doreau has caught up, perhaps I can blame this on her._

Seeing he was still alone left him no choice. He shrugged, trying his best to appear innocent and cover up his faux pas.

"Me? No one. Nothing. Why? Did _you_ see someone?"

He stepped in front of the broken mirror and spoke quickly to avoid further questions. He studied the rest of the room carefully. The area appeared to be a combination of tailor's shop and business office. The nearer portion included a cutting table, bolts of fabric, and several dressing mannequins. Several cases of pattern books completed the area. The far end of the room, where Norman was working, appeared to be the owner's office. A desk, a tall filing cabinet, a wooden office chair and a couple of high backed chairs, apparently for guests furnished this part of the room. The drawers of the filing cabinet were open, and papers had been strewn about on the floor and on the desk.

Norman ducked down again, his attention apparently drawn by something on the other side of the desk. "Where is your partner?" His now disembodied voice asked.

"Hey, how should I know, Norman?" Hammer answered querulously. "She refuses to wear the GPS bracelet I gave her for Christmas."

_Why is everyone always so concerned about Doreau? Why do they never ask about Gun? Why is Norman hiding?_

Hammer was acutely aware of every potential hiding place in the room. He eyed every shadowy corner suspiciously but detected no lurking presence there. Hammer began circling the room cautiously, keeping his back to the outside wall while making his way towards the Coroner. Even without Doreau to berate him, he was careful to avoid disturbing anything in the room. Both guest chairs, he noted, were each turned as though to face the desk and whoever might be seated there. Or were they turned to provide someone with concealment? He was perhaps three quarters of the way to his objective when he became aware of another presence in the room. The nearer of the two chairs was occupied, he now saw. Small in stature, the occupant had been concealed by the back of the chair until Hammer's circling had placed him nearly on the other side of the room, and within eyeshot of the Coroner, who remained kneeling behind the desk. Hammer was puzzled. The Coroner's behaviour seemed even stranger than usual. Usually he found the Coroner and the corpse together. Since he already knew that Norman was behind the desk, he had expected the body to be there as well. _So why is the body over there?_

An eerie chill crept up his spine. Something about the figure seemed familiar. Cautiously, his earlier incident with the mirror still firmly in his mind, Hammer inspected the body carefully, looking for mirrors, hidden wires, or other means of deception.

The figure remained silent and still as death, the eyes closed and apparently sightless. Female, he decided, judging from the long, straight hair that flowed from a center part down over her shoulders. The flower decorating her hair, as well as the wide floral headband, loose flowery blouse and flared, wide legged trousers, along with the oversized glasses seemed to confirm the impression. Although the white color of the hair hinted at advancing years, the vivid colors of her clothing suggested someone more youthful; or perhaps just unwilling to acknowledge the passage of time. Seated in a lotus position in an oversized chair, hands folded neatly in her lap, she appeared serene. The killer must have posed the victim, he decided. Hammer took a step closer, inspecting the body more closely, looking for signs of foul play. The rosy colored tint to her glasses partially obscured her features, but from what he could see, there were no obvious wounds or signs of blood loss. Perhaps Norman had something useful to add.

"How did she die?" Hammer inquired, curious, as he poked her tentatively with the barrel of his magnum.

The corpse turned its head, opened its eyes, and looked up at him.

"Are you here to take my statement? It said.

"EEAAH!" Yelled Hammer, leaping backward in spite of himself and crashing against the wall.

The sudden commotion once again caused the Coroner to raise his head from behind the desk.

"She's not dead, Inspector,"

"I can see that! So, what is she …," Hammer stopped suddenly, realizing there was only one other possibility.

_It's __always__ the innocent looking ones._

"She's the _killer_!" Hammer jumped to his own conclusion as he levelled his magnum at her chest, feeling a sudden sense of respect for the frail looking figure. "Give me a few minutes alone with her and I'll get a confession."

A wild gleam of excitement entered his eyes and he took another step forward, eager now that a solution to the case seemed close at hand.

"I think you'll want to see this first, Inspector." Norman spoke once again.

Hammer glanced quickly in the Coroner's direction. Quick as his glance was, by the time he looked back, the woman had turned her head away and returned to her meditations, clearly disinterested in what the two men in the room were doing. Hammer remained suspicious. Anyone who could sit so calmly at a crime scene was clearly cold blooded. That made her, at the very least, a cold blooded suspect. And he wasn't going to eliminate the possibility of "killer", not just yet anyway. Keeping an eye on her and talking to Norman was going to be challenging, he realized.

"_I'll keep an eye on her. You go over and take a look at whatever Norman has found_." Gun offered an alternative.

Hammer was elated that Gun was taking an active interest in events and readily assented to the suggestion. Cautiously he resumed edging his way around the desk until he had a clear view of the Coroner and what appeared to be a large suitcase. Norman was holding a small flashlight in one hand, while he snipped away at something along the side of the suitcase using a pair of surgical scissors. Hammer hoped it wasn't a trip wire, or a bomb.

"A suitcase?" Hammer inquired. "Norman, I deal in lost lives, not lost luggage."

"Look here, Inspector," the Coroner suggested, pausing in his work and directing his light more fully on the top surface. In the bright beam of light, Hammer saw red. The top surface was mottled in the color. He made out the outline of bloodied handprints all over the surface.

_This is more like it!_

As his eyes adjusted to the shadows behind the desk and the case became more visible, Inspector Hammer could also see that it bulged oddly. As his eyes traced the pattern of bumps and shadows he realized that the shape was familiar.

"Is _that_ a body?" He asked, hopefully, taking another step so that Gun would also have a clear view of the scene.

Norman nodded.

"It appears to be. But, as you can see, this case is closed."

Hammer was more confused than usual. _Closed? How can the case be closed when I have only just arrived. Has Norman been taking night courses?_

"What do you mean, the case is _closed_, _lab rat_?" Hammer growled through clenched teeth.

Norman paused, silent, and appeared to examine the scissors he held in his right hand thoughtfully. Hammer briefly wondered what thoughts were passing through the Coroner's mind. Then he heard the audible sigh which he recognized as Norman's equivalent to Doreau's exaggerated eye roll.

"I mean that this case is all sewed up, Inspector."

"Oh." Hammer said. "_That's different then." _

Something in Hammer's tone warned the Coroner of trouble. He looked up, just in time to see Hammer's brow begin to furrow and his eyes narrow. Norman was used to the Inspector's wild moods and recognized the beginnings of Hammer's maniacal glare even before it had fully formed. Other people would have taken a step back, but Norman was kneeling and unable to take steps in any direction. Hammer slammed his magnum into his holster and, with both hands reached down and grasped the lapel of the Coroner's lab coat. Seemingly without straining he lifted the lighter man to feet. Norman Blates found himself held, firmly, with his nose just scant inches from Hammer's haggard visage.

"Case closed? All sewed up? Is there _another_ Detective in the room?"

There were only two people that he knew who had ever faced Hammer at this distance without blinking. With neither Captain Trunk nor Detective Doreau were present to intercede, Norman found himself all alone, staring into the crazed eyes of Inspector Hammer. He wanted to close his eyes, but they refused. Nervously, trembling, Norman shook his head twice, quickly. He swallowed.

"N-no," he stuttered.

"Right!" Hammer snarled, relaxing his grip just slightly. "This is _my_ case, and it's _not_ solved until _I_ say it is! _Comprehendo_?"

"Excused me, Inspector. I wasn't saying the case was _solved_; I said it was closed and sewn up."

Briefly, Hammer's relented. The Coroner's cryptic comments only confused the cop … momentarily.

"_That_ sounds like weaseling, _weasel_. Unless I'm Batman," Hammer paused to check his clothes. _Nope, this is definitely my sports jacket, not the Batsuit_. "Then I don't need riddles; I need you to give me something that I can use in a court of law. Preferably something incriminating." Hammer continued, growling the words through his clenched teeth.

"I believe I can do that, Inspector. That is, I can help … if you'll put me down first," the Coroner suggested hopefully.

Hammer released his grip. Feeling his weight once again fully on his feet, Norman took a step backward before turning. Searching through his coat pockets, Norman withdrew a six inch magnifying glass which he handed to the Inspector. He motioned, as he knelt again beside the case, once again resuming diligently … _doing what?_ Hammer wondered.

"Take a closer look, Inspector."

Hammer glanced behind himself, and then bent over to do as Norman had requested. He squinted. He considered asking Gun's opinion and belatedly realized that his amigo was back inside his jacket and unable to see anything. Trying to be inconspicuous, he removed his sidearm from its holster and tried angling the magnifier so that they could both see. There was, apparently, nothing to see. No knife wound, no bullet hole, or any other sign of trauma, just a zipper.

"You called me over here to inspect a zipper?" Hammer inquired.

"No, a hand-sewn back stitch." Norman stated matter-of-factly, without glancing away from his work, as though that information itself should answer all of Hammer's questions.

Hammer looked again, still trying to turn the magnifier so that Gun would also have a view of the area. Now that Norman had pointed it out, Hammer could clearly see the neat loops of thread that appeared to prevent the zipper from being opened. He also realized that Norman had been carefully cutting the stitches away one by one.

Hammer frowned, puzzled. He had always believed that Norman's meticulous attention to minor details was just another quirk in what was obviously a quirky profession. However, Captain Trunk had sent him to investigate a murder. For that Hammer needed evidence, starting with a corpse. Since the lady in the chair had failed to meet this basic criterion, his only hope was apparently inside a suitcase that Norman was taking forever to get open. This single thread was getting in his way and holding up the entire investigation. There had to be a faster way. He reached for the small black bag Norman had brought with him, to carry the implements of his trade.

Norman seemed to anticipate the move and grabbed his bag first, pulling it away. "I need that intact."

"Look, if we cut it open from over here," Hammer indicated an area well away from the form inside the case, "it won't leave a mark on the body." He looked at the Coroner, hoping the compromise would satisfy his colleague.

Norman paused at this work and looked up at Hammer.

"I didn't mean the _body_, Inspector. I need the _suitcase_."

"For what?" Hammer inquired, genuinely puzzled. "You already have one black bag."

"That's barely big enough for my tools, Inspector. This is just the right size to pack my lab coats for the CSI convention in Vegas. Everyone will be there … Miami … New York." Norman actually seemed excited. Well, excited for a coroner.

Norman could sense the Inspector's impatience beginning to rise again. He cast about for something to occupy Hammer's attention for the few minutes it would take to complete his task.

_If I could just put him to sleep – without getting shot in the process. Something like a bedtime story … wait … my notes!_

"Perhaps I should bring you up to date on my observations so far, Inspector." Norman extracted his field note book, and flipped through pages to the current case. He propped it open next to the suitcase, so he could check his notes and continue working.

"Norman, why don't you fill me in on you've found out so far?" Inspector Hammer suggested, as though he had not heard Norman's comment, and the idea was entirely his own. Norman didn't really care, as long it bought him a few moments to finish his task.

"At approximately 4:55 this morning the Fire Department responded to a fire on the ground level of this building."

"Who responds to fires on the second floor?"

"That's also the Fire Department, Inspector. They have ladders." Norman consulted his notes and resumed his report. "After knocking down the fire, a search of the other rooms in the building turned up this this case, with what appears to be a body inside."

"A _dead_ body, right, Norman?"

Norman waved to draw Hammer's attention to a stack of shiny metal objects piled on the office chair next to him. "So far," Norman continued, "I've extracted 3,284 pins and 5,216 needles. Whoever is in there has been unconscious and unresponsive during the entire procedure. I believe he's either dead or an acupuncture dummy."

Hammer inspected the objects Norman had indicated. He picked one up and promptly stabbed himself on a sharp point. He dropped the needle back on the pile and sucked on the wounded digit. Mentally, he multiplied the pain in his finger by 8,500 and decided that the person inside the suitcase had experienced a very bad day.

"First responders attempted to open the case to administer CPR," Norman began again. "That's when they encountered those …," Norman indicated a pile of shiny metal objects. "Paramedics described it as 'like grabbing a porcupine'. _Second_ responders had to be called to treat the _first_ responders."

"So, how did _she_ get here?" Hammer nodded in the direction of the still, silent figure waiting in the chair on the opposite side of the desk.

Norman glanced in her direction as well, wishing that a certain someone could be as patient and as quiet.

"She approached the firefighters outside, as they were packing up their equipment to leave. She claimed to be looking for a friend who was missing in the area. The officer downstairs was holding her as a potential witness, but as soon as she found out that we had a deceased victim up her, she insisted on coming up with me. I thought she might be able to assist with identification, so I let her wait in that chair. She hadn't moved until you poked her."

"She's not the only one waiting, Norman!" Hammer's impatience began to show again. "How much longer do you plan to keep _me_ on pins and needles?"

"I'm just about done Inspector …There!" Norman exclaimed in satisfaction. "That should do it!"

As Norman returned his scissors in his Coroner's case, Hammer took advantage of his momentary distraction to pull on the zipper and flip back the flap. Revealed inside was the body of a man in his late twenties. The body had been forced into a fetal position in order to fit within the tightly confined space. The knees were drawn up almost to the victim's chin. His arms were crossed in front of the face as though shielding against something. Something white was wedged between the face and the arms, partially obscuring the individual's face.

"What a disgusting way to go," Hammer exclaimed. "Bent, folded and … _pindled_?

As anxious as Hammer was to take a closer look, he knew better than to cut in front of Coroner Blates. He did take the precaution of standing firmly on the open flap. He did not want the case to be open and shut. Norman reached for his camera, preparing to document the scene before disturbing the body exposed before them.

While the Inspector and the Coroner had their attention focused on the apparent victim, the woman in the chair unfolded from her lotus position and walked silently over. At the sound of her muffled gasp, both men turned. Her hands were over her mouth; her face was pale and her eyes were wide.

Hammer drew his magnum, suddenly realizing why she seemed familiar.

"You're a _hippie_," he accused her. "Look, this is a crime scene, not a sit-in."

She ignored his outburst, her attention focused on the body on the floor.

"That's not Linc!" She exclaimed, in a voice that simultaneously proclaimed both surprise and relief.

"Great! Some stoned hippie anthropologist is looking for the missing link at my crime scene." Hammer snarled through his clenched teeth. "Look, just give her Terry Jones' phone number and get rid of her, Norman."

The woman turned to Inspector Hammer in disbelief.

"I'm _not_ stoned," she asserted, "I'm more lucid than you are! I'm not hunting the missing link, either, but if I was I've certainly found him … you …you _Neanderthal_!" She turned to Coroner Blates for support. "I'm looking for my friend, Linc … Lincoln … _that's_ not him." She pointed assertively.

"Right, and it's not Carter or Reagan, either." Hammer continued to be dismissive. "Norman, at least take this cuckoo back to her perch and keep her out of my hair. I need to think …"

"Fine!" Furious at Hammer's overt chauvinism, she directed her comments to Norman. "I'll be back there when you find a real cop to talk to me … instead of this … this _pig_!" She turned and walked back to her chair, pointedly ignoring Hammer's glare.

"What does she mean 'real cop' …," Hammer began before Norman's flash fired, temporarily blinding him.

_That's why I should always wear these, even inside_, Hammer thought, fumbling for his sunglasses while watching spots dance before his eyes.

With Inspector Hammer momentarily out of his way, Norman began to shoot pictures, getting several of the case with the body still inside as well as the immediate surroundings. Once he was convinced he had documented the scene, Norman set his camera aside and began investigating the corpse more closely, lighting the way with his flashlight. He had not progressed far before he paused, reached for a pair of forceps, and extracted a large needle. Hammer watched, uncharacteristically silent while Norman extracted another. Followed by another, and another. Fifty-three needles later, Norman appeared satisfied that he had found and removed all of them.

"I need to get him out of the case for a more complete examination, Inspector. Can you give me a hand?"

Hammer did not have to be asked twice. He had waited impatiently for the Coroner to allow him a closer look. The opportunity to actually assist was too much to resist. Enthusiastically, he stepped forward, grabbed the handle at the top of the suitcase and lifted. The suitcase pivoted on its wheels stopping in an upright, vertical position. The body's momentum carried it onward, falling free from the suitcase and landing with a thud on the floor.

"Body … in … full … rigor," Norman mumbled dispassionately, while adding the comments to his field notes. He then withdrew a piece of white chalk from his coat pocket and proceeded to draw an outline of the body where it lay on the floor. Once satisfied, he took yet another photo before setting his camera to one side.

The Coroner placed his left hand on the victim's left shoulder. "Can you hold his ankles? Norman asked Hammer as he reached with his other hand for the victim's left knee.

"Twister?" It seemed like a strange time to play games, but Hammer complied, gripping the victim's ankles with one hand while also stepping over the Coroner's back and placing his right foot on the victim's left hip. "Your move, Norman."

"Not exactly, Inspector," Norman replied, his voice sounding strained. "There!" His voice held a note of satisfaction as he produced the white object he had struggled to pry free. He set it to one side, while he examined the victim's hands closely. Hammer picked up the white object and began his own investigation. _A stuffed bear?_

"What can you tell me about the _suspect_, Norman?" Hammer inquired, trying to appear casual as he turned the stuffed bear over, looking for any clue.

"This is a corpse, Inspector, not a suspect." Norman continued his examination, moving to the victim's neck, mouth, nose and finally, his eyes.

"Don't confuse me, Norman! Captain Trunk says until a man is _convicted_, I should refer to him as a _suspect_. So, until this man has been convicted, _tell me about the __suspect__ …_"

Norman gave up. "Your suspect's name is Vincent Luigi", he announced without hesitation.

"I'm impressed, Norman. How did you figure that out?" Hammer was genuinely surprised, having failed to note any ID or wallet during Norman's examination.

"The name is on the luggage tag, along with the address of the store." Norman pointed to a large tag affixed to the suitcase. "Also, his name was on the sign out front."

_Why does Norman always waste time telling me the obvious?_ Inspector Hammer wondered, as the Coroner continued his examination.

"There are no external signs of smoke inhalation, so I believe he was dead before the fire was started."

"Cause of death is … multiple puncture wounds?" Hammer guessed. He once again picked up one of the needles and once again succeeded in stabbing himself. Wincing in pain, he dropped the needle.

"As you can see, Inspector, the inside of the case and the victim's clothing show no signs of major blood loss, and the blood on the outside appears to be from the paramedics. Also, aside from about 8,000 pinpricks, there are no obvious external wounds that I've been able to find. And I don't believe any of those needles are long enough to damage internal organs."

"So, what did kill him?"

I believe you're holding the murder weapon." Norman indicated the roughly twelve inch high, snow white, plush bear that Hammer was holding.

"Norman, Gunds® don't kill people."

"People kill people, Inspector, using whatever they find handy. Look here."

Norman held the magnifying glass up to the man's eyes.

"This appears to be petechial hemorrhaging. As well, the victim's lips and fingernails are discolored. All signs of suffocation."

"That doesn't mean the bear did it." Hammer argued, as he turned the bear over again for another inspection. He suddenly grimaced in disgust as one hand encountered a wet, sticky substance in the plush fur. Norman continued his recitation of observations.

"There are no signs of bruising around his neck, or on his face, so manual strangulation is unlikely. Also …," Norman indicated Hammer's hand, "… if I'm correct, _that_ is probably mucous and saliva aspirated by the victim as he struggled for air while he was being suffocated."

Hammer indiscreetly wiped the goo from his hand off on Norman's spotless jacket.

Norman, of course protested immediately. "Inspector," he complained in trademark monotone, "you are compromising evidence. And my lab coat."

"You may be right … this time," Hammer conceded. "Do we know when this piece of spam exceeded his 'best before' date?"

"That's difficult to estimate, Inspector."

Inspector Hammer looked at the Coroner, questioningly.

"The degree of rigor suggests he's been dead more or less six to forty-eight hours ..."

"What do you mean, 'dead … more or less'?"

"Oh, he's _completely_ dead, Inspector. Six to forty-eight hours, more or less, is to my estimate of how long."

"That's not an estimate, Norman, that's the weekend. Can't you stick him with a meat thermometer and narrow that down?"

"The fire complicates things, Inspector. I don't know what temperature he's been exposed to, or for how long. At best, I could tell you if he's rare, or well done."

"Look, Norman, right now you're leaving me clueless." Hammer looked around the room once more. There had to be something here that would provide a lead, or at least at least a good excuse, to question someone at gunpoint. Gun liked asking questions at, well, gunpoint. He noticed the needles again. His hand was again reaching for one when he remembered his last encounter and hesitated.

"What about these needles, then? Hammer's eyes scanned the pile of metal objects speculatively. "Was this acupuncture, or did some shortsighted seamstress mistake him for a pincushion?"

Norman seemed to consider Hammer's question seriously. "Based on the number of needles and pins that I've found and the number of times per year the average person is stuck by a needle, I estimate that this man has been subjected to about two and a half lifetimes of pain. I think he must have been tortured – for information."

Norman resumed his examination of the body, proceeding with taking samples from beneath the victim's fingernails.

Hammer pondered Norman's last statement. _Torture? Pain?_ Something in the Coroner's words had made Hammer think about his marriage and his ex-wife. Those five years had felt like a _lifetime_ of torture. He took a quick look at the suspect to confirm that it was not his friend Scott. _So, not Susan,_ he reasoned. _Maybe some other wife? Why would a wife …? Unfortunately, as he was only too aware, there were too many reasons to count. The only thing worse than a dead end is a trail that leads everywhere._

Norman completed his last sample. He stripped off the gloves he had been using and tucked them inside his case. He picked up his case and walked over to the hippie who had resumed her sit-in on the other side of the desk. Hammer's eyes followed him. Norman drew on a clean pair of gloves, and spoke quietly.

Hammer needed to narrow his list of suspects down, ideally to the nearest convenient person. He watched as Norman began taking her fingerprints for elimination samples. _She__ could be a wife. Perhaps she only pretended not to recognize the victim. Perhaps the two of them were … were what? _Hammer was tempted to walk over and pistol whip her to get the truth, but for some reason the phrase '_Hammer, you can't do that!_' was echoing in his ears. He looked around, certain he had heard Doreau speaking, then shrugged his shoulders and returned to his contemplations.

_Speaking of Doreau, what would she do in this situation?_ Hammer asked himself. _Even though he often mocked Doreau's 'by the book' approach to crime scenes, he had to admit that she had a way of noticing important details – even if she had trouble figuring out what they meant. So, what __would__ she do? Well … sometimes she says that it is important to look at a case from all sides_.

Hammer began a slow circle, centred on the body and suitcase. What was there to see? The first thing to catch Hammer's eye was the chair and the slivers of metal that Norman had found. The needles! Lost in thought, he absently picked one up, somehow avoiding impaling himself for the third time. Holding it up, he examined it closely. He tested the tip with his index finger and, in so doing, managed to once again prick his finger. Startled, he flinched, dropping the needle he held on the floor. Quickly he bent over to pick it up, bumped against the chair, spinning it around and caused the needles to scatter. Hammer had enough experience with losing streaks to recognize one when he saw it. He distanced himself from the mess, glancing in Norman's direction, and attempting to appear innocent. Norman was still occupied with the hippie and appeared not to have noticed.

_No doubt about it, those things were certainly sharp. __And__ painful_, he reminded himself. _There was also no doubt, from his brief inspection, that they appeared to be sewing needles, not the hypodermic variety. So, although the body was covered in needle marks, it seemed unlikely that cause of death was a drug overdose. Unless the sewing needles were a cover up? What if there were more needle marks than there were needles?_

Quickly scanning the needles scattered on the floor Hammer shrugged and decided there were some things best left for Norman. He resumed circling.

_Assuming the needles were used for torture, this torture victim was dead. Who tortures a dead man? You'd have to be some sort of psychic … of course … I'm looking for a __psychic__ wife! _

_Why would a psychic wife torture a dress shop owner? What kind of information does a dress shop owner have? Information about plus sizes? That probably explains how one woman could have stuffed a grown man into a suitcase in the first place. In addition to being expert at cramming as much stuff as possible into any given size of bag, she could have just sat on him. It also explains the hand sewn back stitch used to close the case. A woman would probably be an expert at sewing. An overweight, psychic wife would fit his profile exactly. If she had a four year old rug rat in tow, it also explains how a stuffed toy came to be at the crime scene. _

_That wasn't so hard. _Hammer congratulated himself. _I didn't even need Doreau to help figure it out. Now, if my prime suspect wasn't a 115 pound waif, the case would be solved! He made a mental note to have uniformed officers canvas all the local Weight Watchers and Jenny Craig meetings._

Having now eliminated his prime suspect, Hammer felt he had reached another dead end. That made three today, and four if you counted the corpse. Whenever they reached a dead end on a case, Doreau would suggest that they look for a different perspective. OK, I've looked at the victim from all sides … what other perspective is there? Distracted, and lost in his thoughts, Hammer tripped over the victim and fell full length on the floor.

He blinked a couple of times before he realized that he was flat on the floor, looking at the crime scene as if he was about four inches high. _This_ was certainly a different perspective. Could he really learn anything new from down here? What did he have to lose? After all, he needed the low down, and _this_ was about as low down as he could get.

Twisting his head around, he tried to decide what he was looking at. It appeared to be a high, black, vertical wall. It took a couple of seconds before he realized that he was looking at the side of the suitcase. Letting his eyes scan along the wall before him, they lit upon … the luggage tag? Norman said it had the victim's name on it, perhaps there was more. Pushing himself up off the floor, Hammer grabbed the tag and pulled it free from the case. Flipping it over he found the name 'Vincent Luigi' neatly printed in block letters on the other side. His fingers could feel some sort of raised design on the opposite side, so he flipped it over again and tried examining the pattern in the light of the desk lamp. Gradually, his eyes adjusted to the light and picked out the pattern his fingers had first identified. The wild glint reappeared in his eyes as he drew his magnum. He held Gun up, for a clear view of the tag.

"See that? I think we've finally got a clue. We need to get back to Captain Trunk."

Things were suddenly looking up! Without waiting for an answer, he tucked Gun safely under arm and spun on his heel. He was almost to the top of the stairs when he heard Norman's voice again.

"Inspector … what about the _witness_? Shouldn't you take her _with_ you?"

Hammer paused, but only momentarily. If he took the woman back to the precinct, Captain Trunk would insist that he take her statement. Of course, he could try sneaking her past Mayjoy into a holding cell, but Mayjoy had been much more observant of late and if he caught Hammer trying to sneak by, he would insist that all the proper booking steps be followed to the letter. In either case his meeting with Captain Trunk would be delayed, letting the case get cold.

"Seal her in one of your evidence bags, Norman. I'll pick her up later."

Hammer dashed down the stairs before Norman could protest further.

* * *

><p>"Where's the fire, Officer?"<p>

Doreau observed the fire department insignia on his shoulder as the officer stared at her with a blank expression, as though he had not understood her question.

_Come to think of it, it's odd he didn't hear the gunshot …_

That's when she noticed the ubiquitous ear buds, and heard the only slightly muffled strains of some hip-hop beat. She reached forward, and tugged one free.

"Where's the fire, Officer?" She repeated.

"Um … uh," he stammered, uncertain how to respond.

"That's a joke." She let just a trace of annoyance creep into her tone.

"The comedy club is one block east." He found his voice and pointed with his pen, as he stooped and began collecting his papers and clipboard. Then, apparently curious, he stopped to glance up. "This is an active investigation. You shouldn't be in here, Ma'am …"

_Ma'am? Seriously?! This kid has to be 28 ... well, 25 for sure. I'm not __that__ much older. Oh my God – did I just call him a __kid__?_

Feeling flustered and a trifle embarrassed, she flashed her badge for the second time in three minutes. "Detective Dori Doreau," she identified herself. _Why do men always seem to assume I'm lost?_

It was the Fire Officer's turn to flush, realizing his faux pas as he examined her credentials. _At least he has the decency to be flustered, too,_ she thought.

"It looks like a clear case of arson," he reported. "Someone piled all the stock in the centre of the back storage area and torched it. There isn't much left. Fortunately, the floor is concrete and the walls are cinderblock so other than the destroyed merchandise, and a bit of scorching and smoke damage … well, let's just say it could have been a lot worse. Have you checked on the body we found upstairs?"

"My partner's up there now, talking to the coroner. Mind if I take a look in back?"

"Help yourself. We've cleared the area of smoke, so it should be safe. Here, you'll need these." He handed her a pair of heavy duty nitrile gloves. "There's soot on just about everything back there so you want to be careful what you touch. Oh, take these, too. I doubt you'll find anything useful, but it doesn't hurt to be prepared." He handed over a couple of plastic, sealable evidence bags. "We're running short staffed, so I need to get over to my next call." He produced a business card, and handed it to her, flashed her a Pepsodent smile and waved, heading towards the front entrance. Detective Doreau turned her attention the back room. "Give me a call when you complete your investigation and we can compare notes over coffee," he called over his shoulder.

_Is he hitting on me? After calling me __ma'am__? Do I __look__ desperate? _

"_Well, your clothes are rumpled, your hair is a mess and you're not wearing any make-up …"_

She ignored the nagging voice and shrugged, determined not to lower her standards, not _yet_ anyway. _He__ will have to call __me__, if he wants that coffee. And he is __definitely__ buying, _she decided, continuing into the back room.

The scene that greeted her there was pretty much as the lieutenant had described. A sodden mass of burnt fabrics was now spread out in the centre of the room, as the firemen had searched for and doused any smouldering spots. Looking up, she saw blackened spots where heat and smoke had reached the ceiling, but fortunately had not ignited anything else. Walking slowly around the debris, she scanned it for anything the fire had failed to destroy. A largish clump of something caught her eye. She knelt down close to the edge, pulling on the nitrile gloves as her eyes scanned the area around the object for any hint as to what it had been. Pulling a pen from her purse, Doreau used it to nudge the unidentified object closer and began to tease bits of charred fabric free until she came on something relatively intact. As she revealed more of the underlying object, she was amazed to find a lady's clutch, almost untouched by the fire. Picking it up carefully, she turned it over, examining it carefully. At first glance the item in her hand appeared to be from a well-known fashion line, probably costing a couple hundred dollars, new.

_Why would someone deliberately burn something like this?_

Puzzled, she examined the item she had found more closely. One of the seams, which at first glance appeared to be stitched, had separated in the heat. _Glue_? She looked more closely. Though the thin gloves she wore decreased the sensitivity in her fingertips, she ran them over the logo. Instead of slightly impressed embossing as she had expected, the smooth surface of the material confirmed her suspicion that it was printed, probably silk screened. She sprang the clasp to the flap and was not surprised when some of the "gold" finish came off along with the soot that had partially covered it.

_A counterfeit, and a cheap one at that, _she concluded as she opened the flap to look inside.

_Empty. Well, what did I expect? That someone would leave their identification behind and make solving this really simple? No, but if the other merchandise destroyed was also counterfeit, perhaps she had a motive, at least. _

Curious, she gently forced the sides apart for a closer look at the interior. If the glued inside lining was not enough to confirm that the item was a counterfeit knock off, the inside label was a certain giveaway. "DNKY."

_Who misspells DKNY®? _ She thought to herself. _Weren't they teaching spelling in the penitentiaries these days?_

_Then there was the question of who would buy anything so poorly made. Even eight year old girls wouldn't be taken in by a DNKY label. Only a real donkey to fall for anything so obvious, _she mused_. Or maybe Hammer. Don't be ridiculous, _she told herself,_ the last gift Hammer had given anyone, was a hand grenade – for protection from an abusive husband. No, _she corrected herself_, he gave me that GPS bracelet last Christmas. _

She decided to run the label through the computer once she was back at the precinct. Maybe the unusual spelling had been found at other crime scenes as well. _Still,_ she thought looking around at the shop, _if someone was murdered for the items in this store, why turn around and burn them?_

Doreau stood up and placed the clutch inside one of the evidence bags, sealing it shut. She'd give it Norman and, hopefully, after a little forensic magic, he might be able to tell her something useful. Right now, this pile of ashes in it appeared to be a dead end. She swept her gaze around the rest of the room. Aside from the burned debris, and some storage shelving that appeared to have been hastily pushed to one side, the interior appeared empty. For just an instant she wished Hammer was next to her, making some observation completely unrelated to the facts. True his "hunches" seldom panned out, but occasionally they forced her thoughts down a path that logic and deductive reasoning would not have taken.

With no better idea of what to do next she walked over to the shelving. Peering into the gloomy, dimly lit area she was unable to see anything except darkness. She crouched, pulling out a small flashlight and looking for a less obstructed view. Flicking the light on, she swung the beam from side to side.

_Nothing. What am I missing? What would Hammer do?_

"_We're wasting our time, Doreau, there's nothing in here."_

Startled, she stood and spun around.

"Sledge …," she began.

The room was empty. The voice had come, seemingly, out of thin air. There was no evidence of anyone else in the room.

"Sledge?" She said again, more hesitantly. "Look Sledge … it's not funny … if you're here come out."

A faint echo was not the only answer. Her annoying inner voice had also returned.

"_There's no-one else here. It's just you … and me. But I'm you, too."_

"But, I heard …," she protested in a whisper.

"_Now you're hearing voices? __His__ voice? Why do you suppose that is?"_

_I'm not going to start talking to myself._

"_And yet, here we are."_

Desperate for a distraction, Doreau scanned the room. Her eyes lit on the back door. An older wooden door, it appeared quite solid and substantial, but someone had managed to smash a gaping hole in the centre. This must be how the firemen had gained entry, she speculated. She walked closer to study the opening. Jagged wooden splinters surrounded the rough opening. No hazard if you're a fireman wearing heavy protective clothing, but anyone else would risk getting their clothes snagged and torn. _Perhaps leaving some evidence of their passing …_

After taking a few moments to examine the opening carefully, she was forced to admit that this, too, seemed like a dead end. There was no fabric, no blood, or anything else that she could see in the are. She was about to return to the front of the shop, but a memory tugged at her, holding her back.

"There's nothing in here." She remembered the words clearly, spoken in Hammers distinctive gruff tone. She turned back to the door and reached for the knob. It turned in her hand. The door swung open easily.

_Unlocked? Was it possible that Sledge had a doppelgänger working at the fire department?_

"_You're thinking of Broad Axe?"_

_No, her brother, Half-wedge._

Doreau shook her head and walked through the doorway, blinking for a moment in the bright light, uncertain what she expected to find. She found herself standing on a slightly raised platform. A gently sloping ramp on one side led to street level, about two feet below. The pavement adjacent to the platform was painted with a yellow cross hatching. Two signs were visible, one stating "Keep Clear" and the other declaring "No Parking". All of the signs pointed to a loading dock. Easy access from either the street or the back of a truck for anyone maneuvering a rack filled with clothing. Walking along the edge of the platform, she surveyed the scene with new interest. A liquid glint reflected sunlight, catching her eye.

Led on by her curiosity, she descended along the ramp, heading towards the point she had marked in her mind, and crouched. Something liquid had definitely been spilled here. She ran her gloved fingers through the spot, coming away black and wet. Rubbing her fingers together the fluid felt slick and a tentative whiff revealed a definite petroleum odour. Probably motor oil she decided.

Glancing back toward the loading platform, she estimated that she was approximately where the engine of a truck would be, if it had been parked here. _Someone had been here, and recently, judging from the fact that the spot seemed fresh. Perhaps someone had made a delivery. If the owner had been expecting someone that might explain the unlocked door_.

Doreau sighed. Before she could reach any conclusions, she would need to verify where the fire department vehicles had been parked. She might have to call the Lieutenant back after all.

Standing up again, she took a couple of steps backwards to take in the entire scene. The back alley provided convenient access to the loading area. It was also screened from the street so that someone could have taken advantage of the relative seclusion of the loading area to avoid attracting attention to their activities. Perhaps there were vantage points in the alley where _someone_ might have seen _something_?

Doreau decided the question warranted a short stroll along. She set out down the alley, looking for anything out of place. Only a few short feet later, a glint of color caught her eye. Moments later she was standing beside an older model VW van, staring incredulously. She had heard stories, but had never actually seen anything quite like this. Someone had painted a mural of vividly colored flowers all over the outside of the van. Over that, in a psychedelic pastel font, were the words "Maud's Quad Rentals".

_Why was a museum piece like this sitting, apparently abandoned in the alley right next to a crime scene?_

Someone had deliberately squeezed the van as far as possible to the side of the alley, managing to get just out of view of the loading area adjacent to her crime scene. Probably with good reason, since the colorful paint job stood out like a neon light. It suggested that someone else had been watching, and did not want to be seen. A quick check of the windshield confirmed that, although clearly parked illegally, it had not yet been ticketed.

_So, it can't have been here that long,_ she thought as she looked around for any hint as to where the owner might have gone. All her instincts said it couldn't be a coincidence. Perhaps there was a witness to crime!

Doreau made a few quick notes so that she could run the business name, license plates and VIN as soon as she got back to the office. Of course, she would have to get it towed back to impound where Norman could examine it completely. Thrilled that she had managed to uncover so much information without the least bit of assistance from her partner, she summarized her observations in her field notebook. Closing the book, it suddenly occurred to her that she would have missed all of this had not the strange voice directed her outside. A strange voice that sounded a lot like Inspector Hammer.

"_Do you expect me to believe __that's__ a coincidence?"_

Dismissing the thought, and the annoying voice, she headed back inside. It was time to find Norman, and to face her "partner". Striding quickly through the back room, she retraced her steps to the front of the building. At the door to the display area she paused and stripped the soot and oil coated gloves off carefully, dropping them beside another abandoned pair next to the door, and pushed it open. That was when she saw the display in the front window – untouched.

"Find anything?"

The uniformed officer still stationed at the sales counter momentarily startled her.

"Maybe." She responded absently, her attention still fixed on the displays in the front window. "These don't appear to have been touched by whoever broke in here?"

The question was almost rhetorical, but the officer was obviously becoming bored with his assignment, and responded, hoping to be seen as helpful.

"Nothing has been touched since I got here, Ma'am. The window was probably too public for them. Anyone on the street could …" He broke off, embarrassed again. "But I guess that's kind of obvious?"

"Kind of." She was usually more polite to uniforms, but he'd just called her "ma'am" for the second time this morning and she was suddenly feeling a lot less charitable. "And its _Detective_, or _Detective Doreau_" she continued, hoping not to be referred to as 'Ma'am' again today.

Based on what she had found in the back of the store, she eyed the displays with suspicion. As she drew closer to the windows her eyes began picking out clear differences between the items on display, and the one she carried in a sealed bag. The logos in the window display were clearly raised, or woven into the fabric itself, not silk screened replicas. Picking up a similar clutch from the display, she noted additional differences. These seams were clearly stitched, and when she held the item close and inhaled the satisfying aroma and texture of quality leather were obvious, even over the charred odor that hung in the air. The clasp, when she opened it, had the heft of quality to it. These might be last fall's fashions, but she was pretty sure that these were all DKNY® originals, and that the labels would not feature any dyslexic misspellings. The obvious quality, and likely value, of such merchandise was in sharp contrast to what she held in her hand.

She did a slow circle of the room, her keen eyes searching for any additional evidence that might have been overlooked. As she did so, she picked up a couple of the abandoned items. On close inspection these, too, gave the appearance of being authentic.

_Authentic stuff on display, and an inventory of counterfeits? Sort of a bait and switch operation? Possibly, _she mused, wondering if a cheated customer could be angry enough to commit murder. _And take out the trash, so no one else could be defrauded__._

Her circle ended back at the sales counter without spotting anything else noteworthy. She glanced at the sales terminal and realized it was actually a computerized model. On a whim she idly pressed the eject button and was rewarded when a mini diskette popped out.

As she reached for the disk she heard hurried, heavy footsteps descending the stairs, and Inspector Hammer burst into the room. Without thinking, she spoke.

"Sledge, look at this."

"Doreau, this is no time for window shopping. I've got a big game slime-ball to bag." His voice was a completely disinterested growl. Without pausing to allow her to continue or to see if she was following, he pushed open the front door and exited. Sensing that she was about to be abandoned miles from the precinct, she did the only thing she could. She pocketed the disk and tossed her sealed evidence bag to the uniformed officer, who caught it neatly in spite of his surprised expression.

"Give this to the Coroner when comes down." She dashed for the door, determined not to be left behind again. "Tell him there's a vehicle in the back alley he needs to check out," she called over her shoulder as the door closed behind her.


	7. Chapter 7 - DNKY

_**Chapter 7 "DNKY"**_

Detective Doreau had argued vociferously with Inspector Hammer from the car into the precinct lobby, all the way up in the elevator, and then down the hallway. Actually, it wasn't much of an argument – she had railed away silently to herself, reciting all of the things she wanted to say to her partner – all while trailing along in silence.

Hammer hadn't spoken a word on the drive back to the precinct. Neither had she but, in her own defence, she had felt it best not to distract Hammer from the delicate task of guiding a fast moving, swerving police vehicle through San Francisco traffic – without lights or siren. Mostly, she had passed the time wishing that she had taken a taxi, rather than literally catching a ride with him.

That had taken quick thinking and even quicker action on her part. Norman's van was still parked and blocking her door when she came out. Hammer already had his door open and, of course, he wasn't holding it for her. He had jumped in, started the engine, and slammed the transmission into reverse without even a moment's hesitation. She had just enough time, while he was shifting from reverse into drive, to yank the passenger door open and jump inside before he gunned the engine again. Wild acceleration threw her against the seat back and slammed her door closed behind her. It had taken almost a full city block before she got seated properly and her seat belt secured. Somewhere along the way she had pulled a muscle in the back of her neck and now it was beginning to stiffen up.

Whatever was on Hammer's mind, he was pursuing it with single minded determination. A new class of rookie officers in the main lobby had parted before him, much like the Red Sea before Moses, except Hammer didn't need a staff, or even his magnum. The look in his eyes had been sufficient. Officer Daley had nearly been bowled over as Hammer bolted out between the still opening doors of the elevator. He slowed down only as he approached Mayjoy's station behind the booking desk.

Furtively, Hammer eyed Officer Mayjoy and, when he thought Mayjoy wasn't looking, grabbed a form from the counter. Mayjoy had obviously anticipated this, and instantly pushed a second form towards the Inspector.

"Hammer, you've already exceeded your monthly quota," Mayjoy informed him, firmly. "If you want more time in the interrogation rooms, Captain Trunk will have to approve your request."

Hammer tried to freeze Mayjoy with an icy stare. His profligate use of the interrogation rooms had caused friction with other officers until Mayjoy had instituted a reservation system. That didn't stop Hammer from pretending that this rule didn't apply to him any more than the others did, but Mayjoy seemed determined to hold his ground. Doreau heard Hammer start to sputter and cringed, involuntarily. It was moments like this when her partner was prone to firing his magnum into the ceiling until he got his way. Instead, Hammer grabbed the second form from Officer Mayjoy and began stalking toward the bullpen. Doreau saw no choice but to follow.

As soon as it had become clear that to her Hammer was headed straight to Captain Trunk's office, Doreau had to make a decision.

On the one hand, she was burning up with curiosity. Hammer had actually seen the murder victim and he had talked with Coroner Blates. Something he had seen or heard there must have convinced him that he had a suspect – or at least someone he needed to question. And he was in so much of a hurry to do it that he hadn't bothered to argue with Mayjoy but instead was headed directly to their superior, Captain Trunk.

On the other hand, it was more likely that this was another one of his wild hunches. In all probability, he was letting his imagination run wild … again … with little in the way of circumstances and even less in the way of facts to back him up.

_How many times have I had to defend him, or make excuses for him? What if Trunk asks questions I can't answer, because I haven't even seen the victim? No,_ she decided, _this time, he is on his own. Besides, my neck hurts, and I just want to sit down for a while._

Having made up her mind, she called after her partner, "Sledge, I need to make a phone call." She then turned to her desk, took off her jacket and slowly eased into her chair. She wasn't surprised that Hammer had apparently ignored her; he was, after all, nothing if not an equal opportunity ignorer. She didn't care. Tentatively, she turned her head, tilting it one way and then the other, trying to stretch the muscles and working the kink out before it became permanent. Hammer had, she saw, paused outside Trunk's door. Perhaps he was reconsidering?

Before she could even blink, she saw him push the door open, race inside, and let the door close behind him. Only moments later, she heard Trunk's voice, through the closed door and over the buzz in the bullpen. She tried to listen in, but except for the points where the Captain raised his voice – she made out the words "HAMMER", "CHIEF", "HANG" and "BAD" – everything else was just a dull drone. She congratulated herself on her earlier decision. _It had not taken the Inspector long to set Trunk off,_ she noted, wondering in spite of herself exactly what Hammer had said. _In all probability,_ she decided, _he is on another one of his wild goose chases. Good solid police work, the kind she was used to doing, depended on going over all of the evidence carefully and not on chasing wild hunches._

_What 'evidence' are we going over again? _The voice in her head mocked her choice.

* * *

><p>Inspector Hammer paused at the door to Captain Trunk's office. He was troubled by a nagging feeling that he was forgetting something. Instinctively, his hand reached for his Magnum. His hand felt the familiar bulge beneath his jacket; he felt the familiar weight beneath his left shoulder pulled at him, and he found them both comforting. He dug into his pocket, searching, and found the luggage tag he taken from the crime scene. He had his amigo, and he had the evidence he planned to use to get Captain Trunk to agree to his request. What else did he need? Doreau?<p>

He cast a quick glance over his shoulder. He saw Doreau, seated at her desk, performing some yoga exercise. He shrugged. If he was missing something else, it was clearly nothing important. Pushing the matter from his mind, he yanked open the door and barged in as usual.

"Captain," he got right to the point, "according to Mayjoy, I need your permission to use the interview room."

Across the room, Captain Trunk felt his heart stop momentarily. He was used to Hammer's interruptions. He wasn't used to Hammer asking his permission … for anything. Then, suddenly, he realized that the Chief of Police was still talking to him. Motioning emphatically at the telephone, he tried to simultaneously to indicate that Hammer should take a seat and wait. Hammer, always lousy at charades, looked increasingly confused by Trunk's gesturing. Finally Trunk was forced to give up.

"I'll have to get back to you, Chief. I've got a _visitor_." He spoke into the mouthpiece.

Trunk set the receiver into its cradle quickly, determined not to let the Chief have time to protest or, worse, discover who his visitor was. Trying to maintain a sense of calm he turned slowly at his desk to face Hammer. Then, in an instant, his face turned florid.

"HAMMER! Don't you EVER knock?

_That's__ what I forgot,_ Hammer suddenly remembering.

He opened his mouth as if to respond, but Captain Trunk, who knew better than to provide him with an opening, continued without pausing.

"Do you _realize_ that I was on the phone with the CHIEF OF POLICE? MY boss! Because of you, I had to HANG UP on him, HAMMER. Do you know how that makes me look? BAD, Hammer. It makes _me_ look BAD!"

Having said his piece, Captain Trunk then slumped into his chair with a resigned 'thump', placed his elbows on his desk, and dropped his head into his hands, pressing his fingers against his temples. His mind was racing. He knew he sounded like someone who was scolding an errant puppy, but at least his rant had allowed him time to release some of his inner tension. He knew that he needed at least a sense of calm, or he would face another migraine. He knew many things, but none of them seemed particularly useful in the present circumstances.

_It's no use, _he thought to himself._ He never listens, he won't ever listen, and it's bad for my blood pressure. Maybe Doreau can help me figure out what is going on. _

Trunk raised his head from his hands and looked up. _Where is Doreau, anyway? _Suddenly his mind was racing, again. _Hammer is in my office_ _alone__, and asking for __permission__ to do something_. _WHY?_

"Hammer … why … are … you … here … alone? Haven't I told you to … _never_ … come in here alone?"

Captain Trunk emphasized the word "never" as he tried to impress upon his subordinate that it had been more than just a polite request. As usual, Hammer misunderstood anyway.

"Captain, I don't _need_ a chaperone," Hammer scoffed. "I'm in _complete_ control. Watch."

Swiftly Hammer drew his magnum from under his jacket, spun it twice on an outstretched finger and just as swiftly, re-holstered it.

"See, not a single hole in your ceiling," he said, clearly pleased with the accomplishment.

"Not for YOU, Hammer, for ME!" Trunk thundered. Then he forced his voice to a lower volume. "If I _ever_ have to _shoot_ you, Hammer, I want a _witness_ that it was _self defense_."

Trunk paused, trying to remember where his original train of thought had been heading.

"Now … where … is … your … partner?" He put all the emphasis he could into the final word.

"I just showed you, Sir," Hammer replied, clearly puzzled. He opened his jacket again, displaying his shoulder holster, with his amigo nestled inside. "This is the only partner I need", he said, letting his jacket fall closed again.

_It's only a white lie_, he thought, omitting the fact that the two of them weren't actually speaking to each other.

"I'm not interested in your _imaginary_ friend, Hammer! Where is your _real_ partner?"

Inspector Hammer's face looked even more confused.

_Why would Captain Trunk think Gun is imaginary? Something must be affecting his short term memory. Maybe it's his blood pressure. Maybe if I fire a couple of rounds, it will refresh his memory._

Hammer was already reaching inside his jacket when Captain Trunk quickly interrupted.

"Leave that thing in its holster, Hammer! What I want to know is; _where_ is _Doreau_, Hammer?"

_First Norman and now Captain Trunk?_ Hammer shrugged. He had no idea why everyone was so interested in Doreau's location this morning, but it was beginning to annoy him.

"Where's Waldo?" He responded. "I left her outside. In the bullpen, Captain. She said something about a phone call, but if you need her, I think I can get her attention."

Again, Hammer moved as if to draw his magnum.

Trunk stared at Hammer with a look of utter exasperation. It felt like he had fallen into a time warp, taking him forward about four years.

"HAAAAMMMMER! Don't even think it, Hammer!" Captain Trunk delivered the words with a low hiss that froze Hammer in mid-motion. "_Detective_ Doreau is your _partner_, Hammer," he continued. "I expect the _two_ of you to be _working_ _together_."

Captain Trunk was careful to speak slowly, enunciate clearly, and emphasise the key words in his message, hoping that this time it would sink in. He watched Hammer carefully, looking for some sign or reaction as he spoke the words 'partner', 'two of you' and 'working together'. Hammer showed no reaction at all; he did not blink or twitch or give any sign of being distracted from his purpose – although what that purpose was, exactly, remained a mystery. Trunk gave up, for the time being, and simply got straight to the point, with absolutely no further wasted time.

"NOWWHEREISSHE?"

Trunk could feel the veins in his temples beginning to throb. He held his breath and began counting to ten.

Hammer took the silence as a request for him to explain. He stepped over to the windows facing the bullpen.

"Out there, Sir." Hammer replied, this time lifting the blind for Trunk to have a clearer view of the bullpen area and Doreau's desk. "See? She's at her desk, Captain, just like I said." Hammer let the blind drop back into place. He shrugged, wondering, _why is Trunk having so much trouble remembering things? _

"She said she needed to make a few phone calls. Probably gossiping with her girlfriends about her latest hairdo. You know what that's like, Sir. Once a woman gets on the phone; well, it's like a congressional filibuster."

Hammer started off almost pleading for understanding, and but was showing signs of increasing agitation.

"I needed to talk with you _now_, not after the next elections," he finished, eyes spinning wildly.

Although Hammer had paused, he gave every indication that he could go on like this indefinitely. There was no escaping. Trunk realized was going to have to deal with Hammer if he wanted to get to the bottom of this, or even just to spare himself a half hour tirade on feminine foibles. He knew his face was turning blue. He gave up counting at eight.

"WHAT IS IT," he yelled, before forcing his voice down to a more normal tone, "Hammer?"

The rhythm of the blood in his temples was now a steady drumbeat.

"Captain, you really need to get your blood pressure checked. That vein is really jumping. I mean it's just, really, like popping, sir." Hammer gestured with his hand. "I'd get that looked at … before it …" He grimaced and made an exploding gesture with his hand.

Another thought occurred to him. Maybe the Captain just needed to relax a bit. "I can recommend a really good massage therapist. She got all the tension out of my trigger finger after it cramped up while I was celebrating the big rally for justice last week"

Curiosity not only killed cats, it could distract a police Captain as well.

"Rally for justice? _What_ are you talking about, Hammer?" Trunk knew the conversation had just taken a detour, but the situation seemed beyond his control.

"You must have seen it Captain. Hundreds of people marching on city hall? Waving signs and demanding tougher sentencing for criminals. And they say there's nothing good on the news."

Trunk thought back, trying to remember the last protest march at city hall. He couldn't think of anyone demanding longer jail sentences.

"Hammer, are you referring to the _pro-life_ march last week? That wasn't about …"

Captain Trunk caught himself. He couldn't possibly win. He probably couldn't hope for a tie either. He certainly wasn't making any progress in finding the cause of Hammer's behaviour this morning. He wasn't any closer to understanding why Hammer was in his office, either. He tried to bring the conversation back to that point.

"_Why_ are _you_ in my _office_, Hammer?"

"Did you want to talk in the hallway?" Hammer asked in a puzzled tone, The Captain's questions were increasingly confusing.

_All I wanted was Trunk's signature on a form. Why is the Captain being so difficult?_

Captain Trunk's head slumped to his desk top. He wished Hammer would come to the point. A point. _Any_ point. To his surprise, his silent plea was answered.

Hammer saw Trunk's head fall to the desk and finally understood. _The Captain was suffering sleep deprivation!_ That explains his irrational behaviour. Maybe if I hurry, I can get out before he nods off.

"Look, Captain," Hammer said, trying to hurry. "Mayjoy says I've gone over my monthly interrogation room quota, and I need your permission to book more time." Hammer unfolded the paper he was holding and slid an official looking form onto his superior's desk. "So, if you just sign here," Hammer helpfully indicated an obvious space at the bottom of the page, "Then I can get back to work and you can quit stalling the Chief."

"Hammer, I am not _stalling_ the Chief of Police. _You_ interrupted, while I was _trying_ giving him a _report_." Captain Trunk started to sign the requisition, and then paused. "Do _you_ have anything to report, Hammer?"

"About what?" Hammer asked, innocently.

"About the homicide case I assigned you to this morning!"

"Oh, _that_ case." Hammer's attention was focused on the document that Trunk had almost, but not quite, signed for him.

Captain Trunk waited. When it became obvious that Inspector Hammer was disinclined to further elaboration, Trunk decided to press the issue.

"Do you and Doreau have any _leads_?"

That startled Hammer from his reverie.

"Yes. Even better, Captain, I've got a _suspect_. Well, I would if could your signature. You see, Captain, _that's_ why I need the interview room. Give me a few minutes to introduce him to my circus act and he'll sing like a canary."

"A _suspect_, Hammer? A _confession_? Hammer, are you actually telling me that you … and _Doreau_ … have found enough _evidence_ to arrest someone? Already?"

The Captain looked again at the document he was about to sign. As he waited, he slowly realized how ridiculous that all sounded. A suspicion had begun to form in Captain Trunk's mind. The suspicion became a certainty. _And this_, the Captain thought_, is how the migraines start._

Captain Trunk had a sudden flash of understanding. Hammer had not yet confirmed it, but Trunk suspected the truth. He was certain that Hammer was working on another one of his hunches. He was certain that Hammer's 'evidence' would likely prove to be flimsy and circumstantial. All of that was completely normal. Inspector Hammer acted like this all of the time. What was unusual, what he didn't understand, was why Doreau had let him come in here alone, with nothing more than this. She never did that. More often than not, she went out of her way to make excuses for him, almost as if she was protecting him. Today, she was talking on the phone, apparently unconcerned, while her partner was in here, throwing _himself_ under a bus. Trunk had no idea why. He wondered if Hammer did. It dawned on him that this might be a unique opportunity to quiz Hammer without his partner in the room. _But I have to keep Hammer from realizing what is going on …_

"Hammer, does Doreau know _why_ you're in here?"

He could immediately see that he had taken Hammer unawares. He pressed the advantage.

"She _doesn't_ know, does she, Hammer?

Hammer was surprised. He had expected Trunk to object to using the circus act. In fact, he threw it in so the Captain could refuse that part of his request. He didn't really need it, after all. He also thought that Trunk might question his evidence. He expected Trunk to protest vigorously when got to the part about Don Key, but he hadn't even gotten that far yet. Why was Trunk more interested in Doreau than the murder?

"Of course she knows I'm here. She was right there when I got these forms from Mayjoy. _She_ insisted she had to make a phone call."

It was Captain Trunk's turn to be surprised. Inspector Hammer's response reinforced his worst fears. Detective Doreau had _deliberately_ let Hammer in here _alone_. Either Hammer's request was simply so _nutty_ that she wanted no part of it, or he had firm evidence that Doreau was willing to let her partner hang himself in public.

Hammer, this is _entirely_ your idea isn't it? _Doreau_ doesn't like it, does she? And, I'm not going to like it either, am I?"

Before he had even finished, Trunk had his right hand raised, to cover his eyes as he squeezed them shut, a physical manifestation of his desire to shut out the unreality of the situation. Knowing he didn't want to know, he asked anyway.

"_Who_ is it Hammer? Which of San Francisco's _800,000 citizens_ have you _randomly_ selected to drag downtown and harass this time?"

"Don Key."

Captain Trunk froze. Suddenly, he was fully alert. Don Key was easily the most notorious crime boss on the entire western seaboard. The FBI, IRS, ICE, ATF, DHS and the SFPD – exactly half of the alphabet – all of them thought he was some sort of ass and had tried to pin something on him, but to no avail. If Doreau had any inkling what Hammer intended to do, it was no wonder she wanted nothing to do with his plans. It was finally starting to make sense.

But, it could be a real feather in someone's cap if they succeeded.

Captain Trunk knew it was unlikely that Hammer was that someone who, in less than an hour, had done what everyone before him had failed to do, but he couldn't help himself. _If there is the slightest chance,_ he thought, reluctantly deciding to let Hammer continue.

"OK, Hammer, I'm listening. What _evidence_ do you have?"

In response, Hammer withdrew the luggage tag from his jacket pocket, tossing it onto Trunk's desk. It landed face up. Captain Trunk studied the tag, reading it out loud.

"Vincent Luigi, 380 Gough Street, San Francisco, California. HAMMER, what does this have to do with Don Key?"

Hammer actually seemed flustered. "It's on the other side. If you flip it over … to the other side. Captain, just …". Hammer's impatience grew; he made a flipping motion with his hand, and then reached for the tag to do it himself. Trunk waited for the moment, finding that he was actually enjoying Hammer's discomfort, and then grabbed the tag first, leaving Hammer sprawled across the top of his desk. Turning the tag in his hand, he examined the back carefully. He had to look closely before finally discerning the faint outline of four letters, apparently identifying the designer.

Captain Trunk frowned. _"DNKY"?_ _Something wasn't right. He had to repeat the letters to himself, silently, several times before realizing that some of them were out of sequence_.

"Do you have any idea how many dyslexic people live in San Francisco? And you want to arrest someone over a simple misspelling?"

"It's insensitive of you to make blonde jokes, Captain. And, I don't think Tori had anything to do with this, Captain." He paused, his face showing obvious confusion and then, suddenly, misunderstanding. "Oh, I see. You said misspelling, not Miss Spelling. Anyway, it's neither of them Captain, it's a simple code. See, if you leave out the vowels …"

Hammer grabbed a pen and paper from Captain Trunk's desk and demonstrated, writing the name "DON KEY" before crossing out the "O" and the "E", leaving the letters "DNKY". Triumphantly, he pushed the paper in Captain Trunk's direction.

"See, Captain, _that's_ how I _know_ he's behind this. Now, if you'll just sign here, I can bring him in. I'll _beat_ a confession out of him. That is, I'll _get_ his confession and _beat_ Doreau. What I meant to say was, I'll _have_ his confession before she gets _off the phone_. That kind of "beat" not the … other … kind."

Trunk waited for Hammer to finish before asking. "Hammer! Are you familiar with the name '_Donna Karan'_?"

Hammer's face went blank again. "Donna Karan?" He repeated, quizzically. "Donna …". Hammer snapped his fingers in sudden realization. "The Don's wife? Of course! You think I should arrest her, too? _Brilliant_ thinking, Captain. You know, Sir, we don't respect your investigative skills nearly enough." As he spoke, the excitement in Inspector Hammer's voice increased with every word. His eyes lit up with anticipation.

_Two__ sleaze-ball scum-suckers. Why didn't I see it myself? Double the fun and one for each of us. Gun would __definitely__ want in on this!_

Captain Trunk felt overcome by weariness. Only Hammer could make this sort of random connection.

"No, Hammer!" He spoke softly, but frustration in his voice was clear. "Donna Karan is a New York fashion designer. Her label is DKNY®. Just like this one, with a couple of letters exchanged." Captain Trunk held the luggage tag at arm's length, pushing it toward Hammer as though willing him to _see_. "_This_ …", the Captain shook the tag for emphasis, "this is a _fake_ label. I'll bet you got it from some cheap knock off merchandise."

_Doreau would almost certainly have known that. Either she didn't know about this tag or she really was letting Hammer take the fall for it alone? He would figure out which later,_ he vowed.

"So, I should bring them in for counterfeiting, too?" Hammer asked hopefully, trying to retrieve the tag from Trunk.

"Have you got any evidence for _that_ charge, Hammer?"

"Well, you just said it was from a cheap knock off, Captain. That is counterfeiting, isn't it?" Hammer replied, wondering again about the Captain's short term memory.

"Hammer, you are _wasting_ my time. Do you have _anything_ else? Fingerprints?"

"Uh – no …"

"What about _witnesses_?"

"None. Except for the _victim_, that is. But I suspect he's a dead end."

"Any _sort_ of forensics?"

"Norman was still processing the scene when I left."

"What does Doreau think?"

"Captain, Doreau's a _woman_. Look, are you actually asking me if I know what a _woman_ is _thinking_?"

For the first time during the discussion, Trunk conceded that Hammer had a valid point. Just not one that would justify bringing someone as well connected as Don Key in for questioning.

"Hammer! You have no _evidence_. Noth-ing." He emphasised each syllable. "Without evidence I can't get you a _warrant_. And without a warrant, you have no authority to bring Don Key in. It's a violation of his civil rights, and it's against Department policy. So don't do it. Am I making myself clear, Hammer?"

Trunk held up his hand as it appeared as though Hammer was going to speak again. Anticipating his next request, Trunk continued. "Hammer, I forbid you to arrest Don Key. I forbid you to arrest his wife. I forbid you to arrest his girl fiend, or any other friends he has. Now, GET OUT HAMMER. Take _this_ and GET OUT of my office!"

Trunk rose from his chair and pressed the unsigned requisition along with counterfeit luggage tag firmly into Inspector Hammer's chest. He glared at Hammer until finally, reluctantly, Hammer began to retreat from Trunk's office.

"Could I just say …?" Hammer began.

Captain Trunk began to press harder, physically forcing Hammer to back up, step by step, until he was outside Trunk's office.

"_No!_ Get _out_! Come back when you _and_ Doreau have something _concrete_." Then, as an afterthought, "Concrete _evidence_, Hammer, not some broken piece of sidewalk! Now, go home and _shave_, Hammer! You look like you belong on _Miami Vice_, not in my Precinct!"

As the Captain slammed his office door for emphasis, Hammer tossed the useless requisition into a waste basket and tucked the luggage tag back into a jacket pocket. As he did so, he reflected that the result of his request was not been a total disappointment. Captain Trunk had _not_ told him he _couldn't_ question Don Key, only that he couldn't _bring him in_, and he couldn't have the interrogation room. _If the Don won't come to me, at least I can still go to the Don_, he thought, satisfied with that solution. He cast an instinctive glance toward Doreau's desk. _Still gabbing away on the phone_, he noted. _When was she going to realize that police work, real police work, took place out on the streets?_

Without thinking, he drew his Amigo and muttered. "Want to pay a visit to the seamy side of town – the garment district?"

"Who are you talking to, Inspector?" Officer Mayjoy's voice intruded on Hammer's monologue.

"No one." He gave his usual denial, minus his usual "caught again" look. As he thrust the magnum back into his shoulder holster, he wondered if this time it was actually true – and wondered when, or if, his relationship with Gun would return to normal again. He hurried off down the hall before anyone else could delay his progress. _Justice delayed is justice denied_, he snarled under his breath. His attention was completely focused on confronting Don Key, and hoping the excitement would return his relationship with Gun to normal. Until that moment arrived, nothing else mattered to him.

* * *

><p>Trunk returned to his desk, sat down in his chair and considered the situation. Through the half open blinds he could see Hammer's back as he crossed the bullpen area, heading towards the hallway. He noted Hammer's quick glance in Doreau's direction. He saw Doreau duck her head so that Hammer wouldn't notice that she had been watching him. He saw Hammer draw his magnum and for a moment thought he intended to use drastic measures to get Doreau's attention. He spoke to it instead, saying something that Trunk couldn't hear, but that obviously caught Mayjoy's attention as he entered the bullpen area. Mayjoy's voice carried well enough for Captain Trunk to know that he made some comment, but not well enough for the Captain to understand it. Still, it wasn't hard to guess, based on Hammer's reaction – he swiftly holstered the magnum and hurried off down the hall way.<p>

_So, at least that much was still normal this morning_._ In fact, except for Hammer's earlier than usual presence in the office this morning, the Inspector's actions were, if not normal, at least no more abnormal than usual. That knucklehead is probably on his way to question Don Key._

Trunk smiled the faintest of smiles.

_He probably thinks I slipped up, not telling him he couldn't do that._ _It's unlikely that Hammer will get any sort of admission from the Don, especially on home turf. But it might not hurt to make the Don aware that the craziest police officer in San Francisco was snooping around. It might make him nervous, and nervous people sometimes made mistakes._

The Captain resolved to give the organized crime detail a heads-up. As well as the Fire department and FEMA. And the Red Cross. They were always there when disaster strikes. Then he let his attention wander back to Detective Doreau.

_Clearly, whatever has come between them has yet to be resolved. Normally, Doreau tried to protect Hammer from his own crazy theories, sometimes even defending parts of them. She would never let Hammer out on the street alone, any more than she would let him into my office alone. Yet, she had evidently been sitting at her desk while Hammer was in here spinning one of his wilder speculations. Now she's back talking on the phone while Hammer is headed for the streets. It's almost like she doesn't care. _

It was certainly clear that she had something on her mind though. Trunk could see her clearly through his blinds, seated at her desk with her attention focused on her computer screen and the telephone receiver propped against her ear. He could barely make out information scrolling across the screen, but he was far too distant to make any of it out. He couldn't even tell for certain if it was words, numbers, or some combination or both. Whatever it was had her rapt attention.

Captain Trunk leaned back in his chair to consider the situation. His interview with Hammer had produced nothing of value. _Indeed, in many respects, Hammer's behaviour while he was here was fairly normal, except for the way he ignores Doreau. His barging into my office, the cockamamie connection to Don Key, talking to his Gun … none of it was the least unusual for Hammer. _

_Doreau, on the other hand, did not appear to be acting normally. It's not at all like her to let Hammer come in to see me __alone__. It's even odder that Hammer could walk out, right through the bullpen, without her racing after him. What if I have it backwards? What if __Doreau__ is angry at Hammer …?_

Trunk felt a shiver go up his spine. He tried to shake off the feeling while he picked up the phone and dialled the Chief's number.

* * *

><p>For a few moments Doreau simply stared at the files from cases she had reviewed earlier in the morning, undecided what to do next. Thanks to Hammer's rush to get back to the precinct, she only viewed about half of the crime scene. She had not even had a chance to examine the body or to talk with the Coroner, before rushing out with Hammer. Well, she could fix that, and the sooner the better. She picked up the phone and began dialing the Coroner's office.<p>

As she expected, the voice on the other end informed her that Norman Blates was still working at the crime scene. No, she did not know when he would be returning. Yes, she could take a message. Yes, she would have Dr. Blates return her call as soon as he was available. Doreau hung up.

_Norman wouldn't be back for at least an hour. Maybe I should have gone with Hammer, just in case. _

Eventually, Doreau thought, she could get caught up by talking to Norman, after he got the victim back to the morgue for autopsy. There might even be some additional information from the autopsy that Hammer would not be aware of yet. She also had information and evidence from the arson scene that she knew Hammer had not seen. In the long run, I might have a head start on solving the case.

_If Hammer doesn't solve it in the next couple of hours,_ she thought ruefully. _What am I saying? Solve a case in two hours? Hammer? What am I worried about?_

Her inner voice answered. _Hammer has a suspect. What do you have? Where do you start? _

Doreau turned and fumbled with her jacket, searching for a pocket. Her hand felt something hard, and she redoubled her efforts, taking only a moment to produce the disk she had found in the point of sale terminal. She held it up thoughtfully.

_This is as good a place as any to start_, she decided.

She inserted the disk into the drive slot on her computer, and while the machine searched for a directory, she stacked the folders on her desk neatly, and set the pile to one side. Then she concentrated on the monitor in front of her, holding her breath. She tapped her pencil impatiently on the desk as the disk whirred, paused, and whirred again. The computer always took its sweet time scanning foreign disks for viruses and malware before displaying any of the contents. She knew this, but knowing did nothing to assuage her impatience.

When the directory finally appeared before her, she breathed a sigh of relief. Quickly, she scanned the list, trying to determine the most opportune place to begin her investigation. Unfortunately, nothing stood out. Several files were present all following a consistent pattern, their names suggesting that they were created daily. Other information in the directory seemed to confirm this conclusion. The last file had been created the day before. She opened it, finding that its contents consisted of a number of entries apparently tracing the day's transactions. Scrolling quickly to the end, she found that the final entry had been made at 5:50 pm, the previous night. _That fact was a fairly clear indication that Luigi was still alive at that time. The fact that the file had been closed normally and not left open was also a good indication that he was still following his normal routine, and that nothing was amiss at that time. She had the beginning of a timeline, she realized._

She perused the list of transactions more closely, trying to decide where to begin. The file was in basic spreadsheet format. Columns were present for the time of sale, the purchaser's name and some contact information, as well as some numeric codes, probably identifying the specific purchases. She was often asked to provide similar information when she made purchase. She often refused, as had a number of these customers, judging from the blanks present throughout the list. There was nothing that appeared unusual that she could identify during her brief scan. None of the information before her offered any obvious leads as to either the killer or a potential motive for the crime. The only potentially useful information that she saw was the list of names. Quickly, she copied names and contact information and closed the file she was viewing.

_Well, if at first you don't succeed,_ she thought to herself. _Maybe if the __last__ file has nothing useful to tell me, then __another__ one will. But which one? __Eenie, meenie, miney, moe. _ Doreau selected another file to open using a time honored method of random selection.

This file was virtually identical to the first one she had viewed. A bit longer, perhaps, but containing the same information in the same order and format. It took a little longer for her to scan the list, paying particular attention to the names. She had almost reached the end when her eyes stopped moving and focused on a single name. "_Shauna Bayfield_." Something about that name seemed familiar. Doreau went back to the list of names she had copied previously, checking each one. _Nothing._ She scanned the opened file again, from top to bottom. _Not there either._ _I have seen that name recently, but where?_

She tapped her pencil against her arm and frowned, trying to think. Trying to clear her mind, she let her eyes wander. They went straight to _last_ place she wanted … the empty chair across from where she was seated. A quick glance at Captained Trunk's door revealed that it was still closed, with Hammer still inside speaking to Trunk. She heard the rise and fall of the Captain's voice and the deeper tones of Hammer's occasional responses, but the voices were indistinct and she couldn't follow their discussion. She focused her attention back on her own problem. As her eyes came back to her own desk, they flicked over the case files piled neatly to one side.

_Inspiration!_ Eagerly she sat forward, reaching for the pile. Sliding them over in front of her she fanned them out to make the identifying tabs easier to read. Quickly her eyes scanned until she found what she was looking for and pulled it free. "_Bayfield Robbery."_ Opening the folder she quickly compared the contact information with that displayed on her screen. _They were the same._ She picked up the phone and began dialing.

As the phone rang, she began to question her instincts. It was, she thought, unlikely that a purse snatching from two weeks ago and last night's homicide were connected. But at least this was something to take her mind off Sledge … and this morning … and last night. A human voice on the other end of the line interrupted her train of thought.

"Hello?"

"Hello. Ms. Bayfield?" Doreau inquired.

"Yes?" The voice on the line responded, sounding curious, but also wary with an unfamiliar caller.

"I'm Detective Dori Doreau, badge number 155621, from the San Francisco Police Department. I'm investigating a homicide that took place this morning." Doreau introduced herself, and then paused briefly to let the information sink in. The silence on the other end of the line continued, becoming uncomfortable.

"Hello?" Doreau repeated herself.

The person on the other end finally found her voice.

"A homicide? I don't understand. My purse was stolen, but no one was _killed_."

"I'm sorry you were robbed, ma'am." Doreau bit her tongue, remembering how she had felt offended by that word earlier. Then she steered the conversation back to her own investigation.

"Actually, the homicide took place at Luigi's Fashions. I believe you are a customer of theirs?"

"I've never been there"

Doreau's senses instantly became alert.

"Are you certain? I'm going through sales records and your name came up from two weeks ago"

"It was probably Jim, my husband. He purchased my birthday gift around that time, and may have given them my name, I suppose."

"I understand," Doreau continued probing. "Could I what he bought?"

"It was a new handbag. The same one that was stolen, in fact. It was one of those New York designer styles. I know it was quite expensive. We're not usually that extravagant." She paused briefly. "Why?"

Doreau made a note. It wasn't much, but it was the first tangible connection between the two events.

"Can you tell me anything about the man who took your purse?"

"I told the Officer who took my statement everything I could remember, Detective."

"Yes, but sometimes people remember things later that they couldn't think of at the time," Doreau paused a moment before continuing. "Do you recall if you saw anyone like him hanging around the store?"

"What did you say the name of the store was again?"

"Luigi's Fashions. It's located on Gough Street, a couple of blocks off Market". Doreau did her best to jog Ms. Bayfield's memory without providing more information than necessary. There was a brief pause.

"I'm sorry Detective. I'm certain I have never been there. I know it's hard to believe, but my husband actually picked it out on his own."

"I don't suppose your husband was with you when your purse was taken?"

"I'm afraid not, Detective. And I was so busy scrambling to pick up my things that I didn't really get a good look at the thief, either."

Doreau scanned the victim statement in the folder. _That_ was why this incident stayed with her. The thief had dumped the purse contents _before_ running off.

"Ms. Bayfield, your statement mentions that the thief dumped the contents of your purse before he ran off. Can you think of any reason why he would do that?"

"It does seem strange. I suppose he just wanted the purse. I am just thankful that I didn't lose my credit cards and ID."

"Thank you for answering my questions, Ms. Bayfield." Doreau was just about to end the phone call when another thought occurred to her. "I have just one more thing: Is there any possibility that your bag isn't authentic?"

"You mean, _counterfeit_?" The voice on the other end of the line sounded both shocked and amused. "Detective, he's my _husband_. He was shopping _on his own_. Would _you_ trust a _man_ about something like that?" After a brief pause, she continued. "The _first_ thing I did was check the logo and the zippers and the lining. Then I ran downtown and had the sales clerk at Nordstrom's check it out _again_. It was real alright." The voice on the other end paused. "Some of my friends have said they'd _kill_ for a bag like this. Do you think _that's_ what happened to poor Mr. Luigi?"

"We're considering all possibilities right now Ms. Bayfield. Anything you remember might be important."

At that moment, the sound of Captain Trunk's door slamming _hard_ caught Doreau's attention. Hammer came out and made a b-line for the exit. He almost caught her watching him, but she saw his head turning and glanced down quickly. He seemed to hesitate, and then reached inside his jacket to draw his magnum. She cringed, expecting the worst. Instead, he seemed to ask a question. Her lips twitched with an instinctive "Who are you talking to, Hammer?" It was always amusing to watch his reaction to that.

Hammer was so preoccupied that he almost collided with Officer Mayjoy, who was coming from the other direction. Mayjoy must have overheard Hammer's conversation and commented because the result was that Inspector Hammer hastily stuffed his gun back under his jacket, shrugged a familiar self-conscious shrug and stalked off down the hall. _Busted again,_ she thought, with a smile, enjoying her partner's discomfort. Convinced that it was nothing extraordinary, she returned to her telephone conversation.

"Thank you for your time, Ms. Bayfield. Could you give me a call at 555-6428 if you think of anything else? Just ask for Detective Doreau."

"Inspector Doreau … at 555 … uh … 6428," the voice repeated her name along with the phone number. "I'll be sure to call if I remember anything else."

The connection was broken, leaving Doreau to ponder the information she had gotten. _Could it be a coincidence? There were a lot of thefts in the city every day. One instance of a robbery that seemed to intersect with her homicide case probably wasn't that unusual. But, what if there were more?_

Absently, Inspector Doreau once again tapped her pencil against her desk and tried to concentrate on her computer screen. Scrolling once again through the list of files she sighed. Its length was daunting and, thinking of the dozens, perhaps hundreds of names in each file it was clear that the task ahead of her was going to be long and arduous. She needed to extract _all_ of the names from _all_ of the files. _Then_ she would have to cross-check each name on the list against local crimes. She would of course also run the entire list against both California and Federal criminal databases. Perhaps a pattern would emerge.

A task like this was made even harder when she had to block out the bustle of other officers, working other cases, in the bullpen. _This__ is why I come in early,_ she reflected. _And sometimes even stay late – to avoid these distractions. _It wasn't like _she_ did it to avoid _her_ partner. It was simply that there were those times when she simply preferred to work alone. She found herself wishing she could be alone, right now. A dark, quiet office and her work were just the balm her chafed ego desired. _There were times when even that had not been enough,_ she reflected. Her thoughts drifted to another time when all she had wanted was to _forget_.

_I was irritated then, too_, she remembered. _All I had wanted was to be left alone with my thoughts; to wallow in my own self-pity_. She could admit that much to herself, now. _He__ had intruded_. If she closed her eyes, it took no effort at all to see a solitary figure, moving silently in the darkness. _He_ _had sat down just about __there_ – in her mind she marked the spot. She had been certain that she had known what was coming next, of course. He'd warned her, now would come the gloating; the '_I told you so_'. When he hadn't say it, she'd said it for him; _anything_ to just get it over with sooner rather than later. _She_ was an idiot. _She_ had made a fool of herself. The words had tumbled out, and with their release had come a measure of relief.

_This isn't solving my case,_ she chastised herself. _It isn't solving my problem with Sledge either_.

The guilt she felt from both of those failures nagged at her. _Guilt?_ She understood her feelings about the case; as a professional she had come to expect herself to be above daydreaming when she was supposed to be working. _Why should I feel guilty about last night – or today? Hammer is the one … _

As much as she tried to blame him, her mind kept coming back to the fact that, in that earlier instance, _he_ had been the one whose words had helped her wounds to heal. After listening to her accusations, her recriminations, _he_ had spoken one simple sentence. "Well, what I was going to say was, if you're not busy … would you like to go bowling, Buddy?" With those innocuous, almost incongruous, words he had made two things clear: that what had happened didn't matter; it didn't alter the fact that they were _partners_ and that as her partner he was _there_. Those few words had lifted a weight and her spirit felt freed.

_What words could fix this problem? If her partner couldn't be the one to speak them, then who could she count on? _

She shook her head, both literally and figuratively. _It isn't going to happen this time. His words created the problem, and no amount of bowling will fix it. He isn't even acting like we're partners any more. And __yes__, it __does__ matter!_

_That is what is really eating at me_, she realized. _It __does__ matter. If it didn't matter, I wouldn't be obsessing about it now; I'd be solving this case!_ _Maybe I should just confront him now; get it over with? _Somehow the timing didn't feel right._ Besides, he's not here, anyway._ Suddenly she was acutely aware that Hammer had not reappeared after being hazed by Mayjoy. _Where was he __now__?_

Doreau heaved a heavy sigh. She took another look at the list of files on her computer screen. She needed to create a simple spreadsheet file, containing names, purchases, and dates, all arranged alphabetically so the she could scan down the list and find any particular name quickly and easily. She was fortunate that the list included phone numbers and addresses; otherwise she'd be forced to spend additional time looking up names and wrong numbers. She sighed again.

_I might as well get started_, she thought. _Maybe after I open enough of these, some sort of pattern will emerge,_ she thought hopefully, as she once again copied the list of names from the file.

"_This seems like a waste of time. Maybe what you need is a good hunch."_

_It's too early for lunch_, she thought, absently.

"_Not 'lunch' … '__hunch'__. You need a good __hunch__. You __could__ ask Sledge. __If__ you knew where he was …"_

"I don't care …" She bit the comment off abruptly, glancing around sharply and hoping no one had heard. It was bad enough working with a partner who consulted his sidearm for advice; she did not want her fellow officers thinking that she was following in his footsteps. Fortunately, everyone else around her seemed preoccupied with their own tasks.

_I __don't__ care where Sledge is,_ she tried to tell herself. Furious, she tried focusing her attention on the file directory again, hoping for some inspiration.

"_What you call 'inspiration'; Sledge would call a 'hunch'."_

_Would you just shut up?_ She ordered herself.

"_Hmmm. A little testy, aren't we? I think you need to look at this from a different perspective. Sledge always has a different perspective. Give him a chance, next time you see him."_

Determined to put the matter of Sledge out of her head, Doreau began scrolling through the list of files once again. Over her years as an officer she had come to trust the voice in her head. Sometimes her subconscious had … insights … before she was even aware of them. Today, though, it seemed to have turned into a nagging annoyance that only wanted to talk about Sledge. It was right about one thing though; opening each file manually was a waste of her time.

_The problem with this is that I have no place to start,_ she complained to herself. Then, inspiration hit_. Maybe_ _I'm going at this the wrong way,_ she thought, reaching for another of case files and opening it. Scanning the report she quickly found the information she was looking for – the date the infraction had taken place. On a hunch she opened the transaction file from the day previous and began searching.

Twenty minutes later she leaned back with a satisfied look on her face. With only a cursory examination of the store sales records, she had been able to match store customer's names with names in three of the open cases she had been reviewing.

_This has to be more than a coincidence! With just a bit more time …_

_Time_, she realized, _is a luxury I don't have. There is a lot of information on the disk. It will probably need to be checked against all of the unsolved muggings in the city. Sooner or later, Captain Trunk will want to be brought up to date on the homicide investigation I'm not certain how, or even if, they are connected. I need to focus on the homicide. This looks more like a job for someone from Robbery Division to follow up on. _

Quickly she made a copy of the disk and dropped it into an internal envelope along with some brief notes on her findings. She placed it, along with the relevant case files, on the corner of her desk, resolving to take the matter up with Captain Trunk later. _Just because this gets handed over to Robbery is no reason he shouldn't know it was my work_, she reasoned. Then she leaned back in her chair feeling like she had freed herself to consider other avenues of investigation.

"_So what other 'avenues of investigation' do you have? You're here alone," the voice pointed out. "You only saw half of the crime scene. You don't even know where your partner is, or what he is doing, right now. "_

That was the last straw for Doreau. She pulled out her field notes and began reviewing them, determined to find something, anything, to prove the nagging voice wrong. She flipped pages. The last one had a vehicle description, and a licence plate number.

* * *

><p>Hammer swung the St Regis to the curb, pressing hard on the brake pedal as he arrived. The front of the St Regis dipped as the brakes engaged. Tires gripped the asphalt, but there just wasn't enough room for friction alone to stop Hammer's vehicle. That job was completed by a cheap Japanese import in front of him. Before he got out of the car, Hammer opened the glove compartment and removed a black velvet bag. Carefully, he reached inside and withdrew a round black object. <em>This might be a good time to try out my latest invention,<em> he thought as he slipped the item into his pocket.

When, Hammer got out, like any conscientious driver, he walked around to examine the damage. Peering over his sunglasses to get a better look, he breathed a sigh of relief as he realized that Lexus trunk had crumpled before any serious damage was done to his heavy chrome bumper. _No need to leave a note demanding the other driver's insurance information,_ he decided. Satisfied by his survey, Hammer took the direct route, over the St Regis hood, to the shop door. As he entered, a receptionist stood to greet him.

"Whadaya want?" The towering, stocky built individual inquired as he moved to bar Hammer's access to the rest of the store.

"For you to join Weight Watchers, for one thing," Hammer growled. _This Neanderthal's fingers are more suited to carving notes a hammer and chisel on stone tablets, rather than using typewriters and paper._

Just then a second individual, virtually indistinguishable from his partner in height, weight, or general appearance, stepped into the room through the back door_. As if one budding sushi wrestler wasn't enough_. _How these guys got so big on a diet of raw fish was beyond comprehension. Maybe they were only Sushi wrestlers? Whatever they did, Hammer was certain it didn't qualify as real sport, not in __America__!_

"Look," Hammer continued, "I'm Inspector Sledge Hammer." Hammer stopped there, confident that this information more than justified his presence.

"You're with the gas company?" The hulking, overweight, receptionist responded.

"I'm with the Police," Hammer snarled, pulling his identification out of his jacket and flashing the badge inside. "The ones who carry guns, not guitars." He opened his jacket to display the .44 magnum nestled under his arm. "I'm here to see Don Key," Hammer strained the words through his tightly clenched teeth. "And, _you're_ in my way," he added pointedly.

In response, the two refugees from Dr. Bernstein® opened their jackets, revealing 9 mm Berettas under their coats, and stepped forward menacingly.

Hammer smiled. Forgotten was the fact that Gun wasn't speaking to him. Old habits were just too hard to break. "Looks like we won't miss target practice this morning after all," he said happily, as he drew Gun.

"Boys." A voice from the back interrupted all of them. "Inspector Hammer is a guest. Show him some respect."

Hearing the voice, the two froze in mid stride, and then relaxed. "Would you like a latte? Or maybe a Yogurt?" The one who had been behind the receptionist's desk inquired.

_Latte? Yogurt? This guy was worse than Doreau. Worse because he was supposed to be a man, not a barista._

Hammer shoved his magnum firmly back into its holster, squeezed between the two goons, and popped into the next room. There he found a middle aged man, with his feet up on the desk in front of him, finishing a strawberry Yoplait®. _Don Key_, he identified the man from his police mug shot.

"Inspector Hammer," the Don greeted him. "It's an honour to meet a man with your reputation."

Hammer was taken aback. _Yogurt sucking criminal scum don't usually greet me with open arms_.

"Don't confuse me," he responded.

"My apologies, Inspector," the Don continued. "This is my … uh … my _secretary_, Poesje." The Don introduced a stunning blonde haired woman, clad in an equally stunning black dress of minimalist proportions. She was apparently applying what passed for shorthand skills to the muscles in his neck and shoulders. Over the knee platform stiletto boots completed a look that, in Hammer's opinion, was well on the "in" side of decent.

_One more charge to add to the list_, Hammer mused to himself.

The woman flashed Hammer a blindingly white smile that Hammer's sunglasses reduced to a comfortable glow. All the while she continued studiously massaging Don Key's neck with a single-mindedness that reminded Hammer of a cat kneading its claws on his favourite "Most Wanted" poster.

"I believe you've met my two executive trainees, Shrek and Fiona." The Don waved in the direction of the two muscle bound thugs who now waited impassively by the door through which Hammer had entered the room. Where they had previously attempted to keep him from entering, their position now emphasised that Hammer was free to leave only at their boss's pleasure. Or over their dead bodies. An option Hammer eagerly looked forward to exercising.

"Which one is Fiona?" Hammer questioned, thinking that if he had to shoot his way out, he might as well use the adage "Ladies first".

"I don't know, Inspector," the Don confided. "They both look alike to me." His voice dropped to a conspiratorial tone. "I think she's actually one of those girlie men the Governor talks about."

Don Key's demeanour switched, and became serious.

"Now, what can I do for the San Francisco Police Department?"

"Well, you _could_ arrest yourself, read yourself your rights, put on these handcuffs, and come downtown," Hammer responded. On his face was an expression that indicated a certain hopeful optimism in the request. Under that thin veneer, he hoped the Don would put up a fight, thereby giving him an excuse … any excuse.

The Don laughed uproariously. After a moment's hesitation, the two ogres at the door glanced at each other, then at their boss, and joined in the revelry. Poesje seemed confused.

"On what charge, Inspector?" The Don inquired, regaining his self-control and picking himself up off the floor beside his chair. Poesje resumed displaying her single minded attention to her duties; her fingers returning her employer's shoulders as soon as the Don regained his chair.

"Homicide," Hammer said simply.

"Homicide?" Repeated the Don. "You mean murder?"

"No, I mean gratuitous use of synonyms, you flatworm," Hammer snarled.

At that, the Don sat up, brushing Poesje's slender fingers away from his shoulders. She shot a disappointed glance at Hammer, and sulked off to one side.

"Inspector, I'm a respected member of the community," the Don protested. "Why would I commit murder?"

"Because you wanted someone _dead_." _Only a brain dead mutant wouldn't know that, _Hammer thought.

The Don remained calm. _This eggplant is just trying to rattle me._

"OK, Inspector. I'll play along with your fantasy. _Who_ is dead? And, what makes you think _I_ killed him?" The Don decided to get straight to the point. _If this moron has any evidence of anything I've done, my boys can see that he never leaves here alive._

"Vincent Luigi, the owner of Luigi's Fashions over on market. He was murdered and stuffed in a suitcase with _your_ calling card attached to it." Hammer pulled the luggage tag from his pocket again, slamming it down face up on the desk.

Don Key picked up the tag from his desk and examined it closely. Turning his chair slightly, he beckoned for Poesje to approach. Ecstatic that her talents were once again needed, she almost danced over to him. He held out the tag for her to inspect. After only a quick glance, she began to giggle. Hammer frowned, feeling like someone had just told a joke and he had missed the punch line. _What was going on?_

"Poesje, sweetheart, go into the back, and bring out a sample of _our_ merchandise for the 'Inspector' to inspect. Pick something really nice for yourself, too." The Don patted her derrière affectionately as she strutted off, doing her best imitation of a model on the runway. As Hammer's eyes followed her, he had to concede that nothing he could see appeared to be counterfeit.

Don Key pushed the luggage tag back across the desk to Hammer.

"You can keep this, Inspector. I have no idea where you got it," he began. "But I can tell you that it's from some cheap counterfeit. I'd was probably made in a foreign country, probably one unfamiliar with American English – England, or Canada perhaps. They didn't even get the spelling right." _That hot shot Raj, from India, in quality control, will be inspecting __starfish__ when I get done with him_.

Hammer snatched the tag back. _This guy's story is starting to sound suspiciously like the bunk Captain Trunk handed me. Did Trunk phone ahead to sleaze? Why would he do that?_

The Don spoke again, interrupting Hammer's train wreck thought process.

"Hammer," he began obsequiously. "Can I call you Hammer? Look, Hammer, I run a reputable business here. Let me assure you that we sell only authentic merchandise, from the finest designers."

Poesje returned at that moment, modelling a slim, tan, lady's over-the-shoulder satchel as though Hammer was a prospective buyer, while carrying an identical looking item which she handed to Don Key. She resumed posing, holding her satchel in various positions, looking for the one position that best showed off her new possession, without concealing any of her own attributes. The Don smiled as he took the item from her, waving for Hammer to come closer. He opened the satchel and invited Hammer to examine it more closely.

"See? The label should say DKNY®, not DNKY; that's your first clue."

The Don continued, pointing out various features which, apparently, were important to someone. They were unimportant to Hammer, however, who had already tuned out of the conversation. _This__ guy is telling __me__ about __clues__? _ _None of this has anything to do with my murder investigation. Now if he would just shut up and confess, __then__ I'd be getting somewhere_.

"Look, Inspector," the Don said, sensing that he didn't have Hammer's full attention. "I'm sure a man of your obvious talents doesn't need me to point these things out. Take it with you. Go ahead. Give it to your girl. _She'll_ know real quality when she sees it. And I'll bet she'll really show her appreciation to the guy who gives it to her." The Don gave Hammer a knowing wink, and Poesje giggled excitedly again.

Hammer had the distinct feeling the meeting was ending. He had one last card to play, and, desperately, he played it. Reaching into his jacket pocket he withdrew the round black object, tossing it in the direction of the startled Don, who managed to catch it.

"What's this?" The Don demanded to know.

"That," Hammer snarled through his teeth, "is how I play "Clue". Go ahead. Look at it. What does it say?"

Curious, the Don looked closely, realizing that he held a Magic 8 Ball. Through the window he saw the word "Guilty" displayed.

"See? That's my first clue that you're guilty." Hammer was on a roll. He could feel it. This Don was ready to break.

The Don suddenly smiled. "Here, catch." He commanded, tossing the ball to one of his bodyguards.

"You guilty, too?"

"Yeah, boss. I'm guilty, too," the man affirmed, puzzled as to why his boss was asking him to confess.

"Toss it to Poesje. I bet she's guilty, too," Don Key continued, now thoroughly enjoying the game. The man made an easy, underhanded toss, which Poesje caught with both hands.

"Me, too; me, too. I'm guilty, too," she squealed, not quite understanding what was happening but happy to go along.

"Now toss it back to the Inspector," the Don instructed.

Poesje wound up and delivered a wild, left handed pitch that had Hammer ducking to avoid a concussion. The ball landed with a hard crack, rolling into a corner. The Don held up his hand for no one to move.

"Sorry," he said apologetically, "she throws like a girl."

"You're right," Hammer agreed, "My ex-wife always aimed for my head, too."

Everyone in the room laughed as the Don walked over, picked up the ball and examined it with exaggerated interest, before handing it back to Hammer.

"Either it's broken, or the floor is guilty, too," the Don finished, sarcastically. "Unless the ball means you, Inspector," Don Key concluded, handing the ball back to the Inspector and tapping his finger accusingly on the word "Guilty" which glared back at Hammer from inside the ball.

"Now GET OUT!" He roared. "And take that cheap parlour trick with you!"

Seeing the two goons once again assuming a menacing stance, and still in shock that his elaborate scheme to break the Don's resistance had failed, Hammer backed hastily out of the room. The hired muscle followed him, at a distance, out the front door. They stood there, impassively blocking the entrance just in case he had a change of heart

Hammer slid into the driver's seat and tossed the lady's satchel on the passenger seat. He picked up the velvet bag and carefully placed the Magic 8 Ball back inside before stowing it back in the glove compartment. He backed up just far enough to swing into the street, only grazing the Lexus and breaking the left tail light as he did so. Then he sped off, reflecting that the Don had been wrong about one thing.

It wasn't a _cheap_ parlour trick; the modifications had set him back $159.95. Maybe he could still get his money back.


End file.
